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THE  AFTER-SCHOOL  SERIES. 


CLASSIC  FRENCH   COURSE 
IN  ENGLISH. 


WILLIAM   CLEAVER  WILKINSON. 


NEW  YORK : 
CHAUTAUQUA     PRESS, 

C.  L.  8.  C.  DEPARTMENT, 

805  Broadway. 

1888. 


COPTRISHT,  1886, 

Bt  PHILLIPS  «E  HUNT. 


Other  Volumes  in  the  After-School  Series 

BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR 


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The  required  hooks  of  the  C.  L.  S.  C.  are  recommended  by  a  Council 
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PREFACE. 


The  preparation  of  the  present  volume  proposed 
to  the  author  a  task  more  difficult  far  than  that  un- 
dertaken in  any  one  of  the  four  preceding  volumes 
of  the  group,  The  After-School  vSeries,  to  which 
it  belongs.     Those  volumes  dealt  with   literatures 
limited  and  finished :  this  volume  deals  with  a  litera- 
ture indefinitely  vast  in  extent,  and  still  in  vital 
iftjo      process  of  growth.     The  selection  of  material  to  be 
^      used  was,  in  the  case  of  the  earlier  volumes,  virtu- 
\W     ally  made  for  the  author  beforehand,  in  a  manner 
^     greatly  to  ease  his  sense  of  responsibility  for  the 
r.^    exercise  of  individual  judgment  and  taste.     Long 
prescription,  joined  to  the  winnowing  effect  of  wear 
Vi    and  waste  through  time  and  chance,  had  left  little 
>    doubt   what  works    of    what   writers,   Greek    and 
Roman,  best  deserved  now  to  be  shown  to  the  gen- 
eral reader.     Besides  this,  the  prevalent  custom  of 

iii 


iv  Preface. 

the  schools  of  classical  learning  could  then  wisely 
be  taken  as  a  clew  of  guidance  to  be  implicitly  fol- 
lowed, whatever  might  be  the  path  through  which  it 
should  lead.  There  is  here  no  similar  avoidance  of 
responsibility  possible ;  for  the  schools  have  not 
established  a  custom,  and  French  literature  is  a  liv- 
ing body,  from  which  no  important  members  have 
ever  yet  been  rent  by  the  ravages  of  time. 

The  greater  difficulty  seen  thus  to  inhere  already 
in  the  nature  itself  of  the  task  proposed  for  accom- 
plishment, was  gravel}'  increased  by  the  much  more 
severe  compression  deemed  to  be  in  the  present  in- 
stance desirable.  The  room  placed  at  the  author's 
disposal  for  a  display  of  French  literature  was  less 
than  half  the  room  allowed  him  for  the  display  of 
either  the  Greek  or  the  Latin. 

The  plan,  therefore,  of  this  volume,  imposed  the 
necessity  of  establishing  from  the  outset  certain 
limits,  to  be  very  strictly  observed.  First,  it  was 
resolved  to  restrict  the  attention  bestowed  upon  the 
national  history,  the  national  geography,  and  the 
national  language,  of  the  French,  to  such  brief 
occasional  notices  as,  in  the  course  of  the  volume, 
it  might  seem  necessary,  for  illustration  of  the  par- 
ticular author,  from  time  to  time  to  make.    The 


Preface.  v 

only  introductory  general  matter  here  to  be  found 
will  accordingly  consist  of  a  rapid  and  summary 
review  of  that  literature,  as  a  whole,  which  is  the 
subject  of  the  book.  It  was  next  determined  to 
limit  the  authors  selected  for  representation  to 
those  of  the  finished  centuries.  A  third  decision 
was  to  make  the  number  of  authors  small  rather 
than  large,  choice  rather  than  inclusive.  The  prin- 
ciple at  this  point  adopted,  was  to  choose  those 
authors  only  whose  merit,  or  whose  fame,  or  whose 
influence,  might  be  supposed  unquestionably  such 
that  their  names  and  their  works  would  certainly  be 
found  surviving,  though  the  language  in  which  they 
wrote  should,  like  its  parent  Latin,  have  perished 
from  the  tongues  of  men.  The  proportion  of  space 
severally  allotted  to  the  different  authors  was  to  be 
measured  partly  according  to  their  relative  impor- 
tance, and  partly  according  to  their  estimated  rela- 
tive capacity  of  interesting  in  translation  the  average 
intelligent  reader  of  to-day. 

In  one  word,  the  single  inspiring  aim  of  the  author 
has  here  been  to  furnish  enlightened  readers,  versed 
only  in  the  English  language,  the  means  of  acquir- 
ing, through  the  medium  of  their  vernacular,  some 
proportioned,  trustworthy,  and  effective  knowledge 


vi  Preface. 

and  appreciation,  in  its  chief  classics,  of  the  great 
literature  which  has  been  written  in  French.  This 
object  has  been  sought,  not  through  narrative  and 
description,  making  books  and  authors  the  subject, 
but  through  the  literature  itself,  in  specimen  ex- 
tracts illuminated  by  the  necessary  explanation  and 
criticism. 

It  is  proposed  to  follow  the  present  volume  with  a 
volume  similar  in  general  character,  devoted  to 
German  literature. 


OOl^TEl^TS. 


Z.  FASI 

Frknch  Litebatube 1 

It. 

Froissabt Id 

III. 

Rabelais 28 

IV. 

MOKTAIOXS 44 

V. 
/La     Rochefoucauld     (La    BruyIire;     Vauve- 

i  KARGUES) 66 

VI. 
La  Fontaine .81 

VII. 

MOLIERE 92 

VIII. 
Pascal 115 

vil 


viii  Contents. 

IX.  PAOB 

Madame  de  Sevign^ 134 

X. 

COKNEILLE 151 

XI. 
Racixe 166 

XII. 

BOSSUET,   BOUBDALOUE,   MASSILLON 182 

xin. 

F^NELON 205 

XIV. 

MONTESQmEV 225 

XV. 
VOLTAIKE 238 

XVI. 
Rousseau 255 

XVII. 
The  Encyclopedists 282 

XVIII. 
Epilogue 288 

Index > 293 


Classic  French  Course  in  English. 


I. 

FRENCH    LITERATURE. 

Of  French  literature,  taken  as  a  whole,  it  may 
boldly  be  said  that  it  is,  not  the  wisest,  not  the 
weightiest,  not  certainly  the  purest  and  loftiest,  but 
by  odds  the  most  brilliant  and  the  most  interesting, 
literature  in  the  world.  Strong  at  many  points,  at 
some  points  triumphantly  strong,  it  is  conspicuously 
weak  at  only  one  point,  —  the  important  point  of 
poetry.  In  eloquence,  in  philosophy,  even  in  the- 
ology ;  in  history,  in  fiction,  in  criticism,  in  episto- 
lary writing,"  in  what  may  be  called  the  pamphlet; 
in  another  species  of  composition,  characteristically, 
peculiarly,  almost  uniqueh",  French, — the  Thought 
and  the  Maxim ;  by  eminence  in  comedy,  and  in  all 
those  related  modes  of  written  expression  for  which 
there  is  scarcely  any  name  but  a  P^ench  name,  — 
the  jew  d" esprit,  the  hon  mot,  persiflage,  the  j)hrase; 
in  social  and  political  speculation ;  last,  but  not 
least,  in  scientific  exposition  elegant  enough  in 
form  and  iu  style  to  rise  to  the  rank  of  literature 

1 


2  Classic  French   Course  in  English. 

proper,  — the  French  language  has  abundant  achieve- 
ment to  show,  that  puts  it,  upon  the  whole,  hardl}' 
second  in  wealth  of  letters  to  any  other  language 
whatever,  either  ancient  or  modern. 

What  constitutes  the  charm  —  partly  a  perilous 
charm  —  of  French  literature  is,  before  all  else,  its 
incomparable  clearness,  its  precision,  its  neatness, 
its  point ;  then,  added  to  this,  its  lightness  of  touch, 
its  sureness  of  aim ;  its  vivacity,  sparkle,  life ;  its 
inexhaustible  gayety ;  its  impulsion  toward  wit,  — 
impulsion  so  strong  as  often  to  land  it  in  mocker}' ; 
the  sense  of  release  that  it  breathes  and  inspires ; 
its  freedom  from  prick  to  the  conscience  ;  its  exqui- 
site study  and  choice  of  effect ;  its  deference  paid  to 
decorum,  —  decorum,  we  mean,  in  taste,  as  distin- 
guished from  morals  ;  its  infinite  patience  and  labor 
of  art,  achieving  the  perfection  of  grace  and  of 
ease,  — in  one  word,  its  style. 

We  speak,  of  course,  broadly  and  in  the  gross. 
There  are  plenty  of  French  authors  to  whom  some 
of  the  traits  just  named  could  by  no  means  be 
attributed,  and  there  is  certainly  not  a  single  French 
author  to  whom  one  could  truthfully  attribute  them 
all.  Voltaire  insisted  that  what  was  not  clear  was 
not  French,  —  so  much,  to  the  conception  of  this 
typical  Frenchman,  was  clearness  the  genius  of  the 
national  speech.  Still,  Montaigne,  for  example, 
was  sometimes  obscure ;  and  even  the  tragedist 
Corneille  wrote  here  and  there  what  his  commen- 
tator, Voltaire,  declared  to  be  hardly  intelligible. 


French  Literature.  3 

So,  too,  Rabelais,  coarsest  of  humorists,  offending 
decorum  in  various  ways,  offended  it  most  of  all  ex- 
actl}'  in  that  article  of  taste,  as  distinguished  from 
morals,  which,  with  first-rate  French  authors  in  gen- 
eral, is  so  capital  a  point  of  regard.  On  the  other 
hand,  Pascal,  —  not  to  mention  the  moralists  by 
profession,  such  as  Nicole,  and  the  preachers  Bour- 
daloue  and  Massillon, — Pascal,  quivering  himself, 
like  a  soul  unclad,  with  sense  of  responsibility  to 
God,  constantly  probes  you,  reading  him,  to  the  in- 
most quick  of  your  conscience.  Rousseau,  notably 
in  the  "  Confessions,"  and  in  the  Reveries  supple- 
mentary to  the  "  Confessions  ; "  Chateaubriand,  echo- 
ing Rousseau  ;  and  that  wayward  woman  of  genius, 
George  Sand,  disciple  she  to  both,  — were  so  far  from 
being  always  light-heartedly  gay,  that  not  seldom 
they  spread  over  their  page  a  sombre  atmosphere 
almost  of  gloom,  —  gloom  flushed  pensively,  as  with 
a  clouded  "  setting  sun's  pathetic  light."  In  short, 
when  you  speak  of  particular  authors,  and  naturally 
still  more  when  j-ou  speak  of  particular  works, 
there  are  many  discriminations  to  be  made.  Such 
exceptions,  however,  being  duh*  allowed,  the  lite- 
rary product  of  the  F'rench  mind,  considered  in  the 
aggregate,  will  not  be  misconceived  if  regarded  as 
pjssessin;^  tho  general  characteristics  in  style  that 
we  have  now  sought  briefly  to  indicate. 

French  literature,  we  have  hinted,  is  compara- 
tively poor  in  poetry.  This  is  due  in  part,  no  doubt, 
to  the  geniiis  of  the  people ;  but  it  is  also  due  in 


4  Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

part  to  the  structure  of  the  language.  The  lan- 
guage, which  is  derived  chiefly  from  Latin,  is  thence 
in  such  a  way  derived  as  to  have  lost  the  regularity 
and  stateliness  of  its  ancient  original,  without  hav- 
ing compensated  itself  with  any  richness  and  sweet- 
ness of  sound  peculiarly  its  own  ;  like,  for  instance, 
that  canorous  vowel  quality  of  its  sister  derivative, 
the  Italian.  The  French  language,  in  short,  is  far 
from  being  an  ideal  language  for  the  poet. 

In  spite,  however,  of  this  fact,  disputed  by  no- 
body, it  is  true  of  French  literature,  as  it  is  true  of 
almost  any  national  literjiture,  that  it  took  its  rise 
in  verse  instead  of  in  prose.  Anciently,  there  were 
two  languages  subsisting  together  in  France,  which 
came  to  be  distinguished  from  each  other  in  name 
by  the  word  of  affirmation  —  oc  or  oi7,  yes  —  sever- 
ally peculiar  to  them,  and  thus  to  be  known  respec- 
tively as  langue  d'oc,  and  langue  d'otl.  The  future 
belonged  to  the  latter  of  the  two  forms  of  speech,  — 
the  one  spoken  in  the  northern  part  of  the  country. 
This,  the  langue  d'o'il^  became  at  length  the  French 
language.  But  the  langue  d'oc,  a  soft  and  musical 
tongue,  survived  long  enough  to  become  the  vehicle 
of  lyric  strains,  mostly  on  subjects  of  love  and  gal- 
lantry, still  familiar  in  mention,  and  famous  as  the 
songs  of  the  troubadours.  The  flourishing  time  of 
the  troubadours  was  in  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  cen- 
turies. Proven9aI  is  an  alternative  name  of  the 
language. 

Side  by  side  with  the  southern  troubadours,  or  a 


French  Literature.  5 

little  later  than  they,  the  trouvkres  of  the  north  sang, 
with  more  manly  ambition,  of  national  themes,  and, 
like  Virgil,  of  arms  and  of  heroes.  Some  produc- 
tions of  the  trouv^res  may  fairly  be  allowed  an  ele 
vation  of  aim  and  of  treatment  entitling  them  to  be 
called  epic  in  character.  Chansons  de  geste  (songs 
of  exploit) ,  or  romans,  is  the  native  name  by  which 
those  primitive  French  poems  are  known.  They 
exist  in  three  principal  cycles,  or  groups,  of  produc- 
tions,—  one  cycle  composed  of  those  pertaining  to 
Charlemagne ;  one,  of  those  pertaining  to  British 
Arthur;  and  a  third,  of  those  pertaining  to  ancient 
Greece  and  Rome,  notably  to  Alexander  the  Great. 
The  cycle  revolving  around  the  majestic  legend  of 
Charlemagne  for  its  centre  was  Teutonic,  rather 
than  Celtic,  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  theme.  It  tended 
to  the  religious  in  tone.  The  Arthurian  cycle  was 
properly  Celtic.  It  dealt  more  with  adventures  of 
love.  The  Alexandrian  cj'cle,  so  named  from  one 
principal  theme  celebrated, — namelv,  the  deeds  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  —  mixed  fantastically  the  tra- 
ditions of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome  with  the  then 
prevailing  ideas  of  chivalry,  and  with  the  figments 
of  fairy  lore.  (The  metrical  form  employed  in  these 
poems  gave  its  name  to  the  Alexandrine  line  later 
so  predominant  in  French  poetry.)  The  volume  of 
this  quasi-epical  verse,  existing  in  its  three  groups, 
or  c\'cles,  is  immense.  So  is  that  of  the  satire  and 
the  allegory  in  metre  that  followed.  From  this 
latter  store  of  stock  and  example,  Chaucer  drew  to 


6  Classic  French  Course  in,  English. 

supply  his  muse  with  material.  The  fabliaux,  so 
called,  —  fables,  that  is,  or  stories, — were  still 
another  form  of  early  French  literature  in  verse.  It 
is  only  now,  within  the  current  decade  of  3'ears,  that 
a  really  ample  collection  of  fabliaux  —  hitheito,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  printed  volumes  of  specimens, 
extant  exclusively  in  manuscript — has  been  put  into 
course  of  publication.  Rutebeuf,  a  trouvh-e  of  the 
reign  of  St.  Louis  (Louis  IX.,  thirteenth  century), 
is  perhaps  as  conspicuous  a  personal  name  as  any 
that  thus  far  emerges  out  of  the  sea  of  practically 
anonymous  early  French  authorship.  A  frankly  sor- 
did and  mercenary  singer,  Rutebeuf,  always  tending 
to  mockery,  was  not  seldom  licentious,  —  in  both 
these  respects  anticipating,  as  probably  also  to  some 
extent  by  example  conforming,  the  subsequent  lite- 
rary spirit  of  his  nation.  The  fabliaux  generally 
mingled  with  their  nan-ative  interest  that  spice  of 
raillery  and  satire  constantly  so  dear  to  the  French 
literary  appetite.  Thibaud  was,  in  a  double  sense, 
a  royal  singer  of  songs ;  for  he  reigned  over  Na- 
varre, as  well  as  chanted  sweetly  in  verse  his  love 
and  longing,  so  the  disputed  legend  asserts,  for 
Queen  Blanche  of  Castile.  Thibaud  bears  the  his- 
toric title  of  The  Song-maker.  He  has  been  styled 
the  B^ranger  of  the  thirteenth  century.  To  Thibaud 
is  said  to  be  due  the  introduction  of  the  feminine 
rhyme  into  French  poetry,  —  a  metrical  variation  of 
capital  importance.  The  songs  of  Ab^lard,  in  the 
century  preceding  Thibaud,  won  a  wide  popularity. 


French  Literature.  7 

Prose,  meantime,  had  been  making  noteworthy 
approaches  to  form.  Villehardouin  must  be  named 
as  first  in  time  among  French  writers  of  history. 
His  work  is  entitled,  "Conquest  of  Constantinople." 
It  gives  an  account  of  the  Fourth  Crusade.  Join- 
ville,  a  generation  later,  continues  the  succession  of 
chronicles  with  his  admiring  story  of  the  life  of 
Saint  Louis,  whose  personal  friend  he  was.  But 
Froissart  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  Comines 
of  the  fifteenth,  are  greater  names.  Froissart,  by 
his  simplicity  and  his  narrative  art,  was  the  Hefodo- 
tus,  as  Philip  de  Comines,  for  his  political  sagacity, 
has  been  styled  the  Tacitus,  of  French  historical 
literature.  Up  to  the  time  of  Froissart,  the  litera- 
ture which  we  have  been  treating  as  French  was 
different  enough  in  form  from  the  French  of  to-day 
to  require  what  might  be  called  translation  in  order 
to  become  generally  intelligible  to  the  living  genera- 
tion of  Frenchmen.  The  text  of  Froissart  is  pretty 
archaic,  but  it  definitely  bears  the  aspect  of  French. 

With  the  name  of  Comines,  who  wrote  of  Louis 
XI.  (compare  Walter  Scott's  "QuentinDurward"). 
we  reach  the  fifteenth  century,  and  are  close  upon 
the  great  revival  of  learning  which  accompanied  the 
religious  reformation  under  Luther  and  his  peers. 
Now  come  Rabelais,  boldly  declared  by  Coleridge*^ 
one  of  the  great  creative  minds  of  literature ;  and 
Montaigne,  with  those  Essays  of  his,  still  living,  and,v^ 
indeed,  certain  always  to  live.  John  Calvin,  mean- 
time, writes  his  "  Institutes  of  the  Christian  Religion  " 


8  Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

in  French  as  well  as  in  Latin,  showing  once  and  for 
all,  that  in  the  right  hands  his  vernacular  tongue  was 
as  capable  of  gravity  as  many  a  writer  before  him 
had  superfluously  shown  that  it  was  capable  of  levity. 
Amyot,  the  translator  of  Plutarch,  is  a  French  writer 
of  power,  without  whom  the  far  greater  Montaigne 
could  hardly  have  been.  The  influence  of  Amyot 
on  French  literary  history  is  wider  in  reach  and 
longer  in  duration  than  we  thus  indicate  ;  but  Mon- 
taigne's indebtedness  to  him  is  alone  enough  to 
prove  that  a  mere  translator  had  in  this  man  made 
a  very  important  contribution  to  the  forming  prose 
literature  of  France. 

•^  "  The  Pleiades,"  so  called,  were  a  group  of  seven 
writers,  who,  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, banded  themselves  together  in  France,  with  the 
express  aim  of  supplying  influential  example  to  im- 
prove the  French  language  for  literary  purposes. 
Their  peculiar  appellation,  "The  Pleiades,"  was 
copied  from  that  of  a  somewhat  similar  group  of 
Greek  writers,  that  existed  in  the  time  of  Ptolemy 
Philadelphus.  Of  course,  the  implied  allusion  in  it 
is  to  the  constellation  of  the  Pleiades.  The  individual 
name  by  which  the  Pleiades  of  the  sixteenth  century 

'^4tiay  best  be  remembered  is  that  of  Ronsard  the  poet, 
associated  with  the  romantic  and  pathetic  memory 
of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  Never,  perhaps,  in  the 
history  of  letters  was  the  fame  of  a  poet  in  the  poet's 
own  lifetime  more  universal  and  more  splendid  than 
was  the  fame  of  Ronsard.     A  high  court  of  literary 


French  Literature.  d 

judicature  formally  decreed  to  Ronsard  the  title  of 
The  French  Poet  by  eminence.  This  occurred  in  the 
youth  of  the  poet.  The  wine  of  success  so  brilliant 
turned  the  young  fellow's  head.  He  soon  began  to 
play  lord  paramount  of  Parnassus,  with  every  air  of 
one  bom  to  the  purple.  The  kings  of  the  eurth  vied 
with  each  other  to  do  him  honor.  Ronsard  affected 
scholarship,  and  the  foremost  scholars  of  his  time 
were  proud  to  place  him  with  Homer  and  with  Virgil 
on  the  roll  of  the  poets.  Ronsard's  peculiarity  in 
style  was  the  free  use  of  words  and  constructions 
not  properly  French.  Boileau  indicated  whence  he 
enriched  his  vocabulary  and  his  syntax,  by  satirically 
saying  that  Ronsard  spoke  Greek  and  Latin  in  French. 
At  his  death,  Ronsard  was  almost  literally  buried 
under  praises.  Sainte-Beuve  strikingly  says  that  he 
seemed  to  go  forward  into  posterit}-  as  into  a  temple. 
Sharp  posthumous  reprisals  awaited  the  extrava- 
gant fame  of  Ronsard.  Malherbe,  coming  in  the 
next  generation,  legislator  of  Parnassus,  laughed  the 
literary  pretensions  of  Ronsard  to  scorn.  This  stem 
critic  of  form,  such  is  the  story,  marked  up  his  copy 
of  Ronsard  with  notes  of  censure  so  many,  that  a 
friend  of  his,  seeing  the  annotated  volume,  obsen^ed, 
"What  here  is  not  marked,  will  be  understood  to 
have  been  approved  by  30U."  Whereupon  Mal- 
herbe, taking  his  pen,  with  one  indiscriminate  stroke 
drew  it  abruptly  through  the  whole  volume.  "  There 
I  Ronsardized,"  the  contemptuous  critic  would  ex- 
claim, when  ill  reading  his  owu  versus  to  an  itci' 
2 


10         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

quaintance,  —  for  Malherbe  was  poet  himself,  —  he 
happened  to  encounter  a  word  that  struck  him  as 
harsh  or  improper.  Malherbe,  in  short,  sought  to 
chasten  and  check  the  luxuriant  overgrowth  to 
which  the  example  and  method  of  the  Pleiades 
were  tending  to  push  the  language  of  poetry  in 
French.  The  resultant  effect  of  the  two  contrary 
tendencies  —  that  of  literary  wantonness  on  the 
one  hand,  and  that  of  literary  prudery  on  the  other 
—  was  at  the  same  time  to  enrich  and  to  purify 
French  poetical  diction.  Balzac  (the  elder),  close 
to  Malherbe  in  time,  performed  a  service  for  French 
prose  similar  to  that  which  the  latter  performed  for 
French  verse.  These  two  critical  and  literary  powers 
brought  in  the  reign  of  what  is  called  classicism  in 
France.  French  classicism  had  its  long  culmination 
under  Louis  XIV. 

But  it  was  under  Louis  XIII.,  or  rather  imder 
that  monarch's  great  minister.  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
that  the  rich  and  splendid  Augustan  age  of  French 
literature  was  truly  prepared.  Two  organized  forces, 
one  of  them  private  and  social,  the  otlier  official  and 
public,  worked  together,  though  sometimes  perhaps 
not  in  harmony,  to  produce  the  magnificent  literar\' 
result  that  illustrated  tlie  time  of  Louis  XIV.  Of 
these  two  organized  forces,  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillct 
was  one,  and  the  French  Academy  was  the  other. 
Thj  Hotel  de  Rambouillct  has  become  the  adopted 
name  of  a  literary  society,  presided  over  by  the  fine 
inspiring  genius  of  the  beautiful  and  accomplished 


French  Literature.  11 

Italian  wife  of  the  Marquis  de  Rambouillet,  a  lady"^ 
who  generously  conceived  the  idea  of  rallying  the 
feminine  wit  and  virtue  of  the  kingdom  to  exert  a 
potent  influence  for  regenerating  the  manners  and 
morals,  and  indeed  the  literature,  of  France.  At 
the  high  court  of  blended  rank  and  fashion  and 
beauty  and  polish  and  virtue  and  wit,  thus  estab^ 
lished  in  the  exquisitely  builded  and  decorated  sa- 
loons of  the  Rambouillet  mansion,  the  selectest 
literary  genius  and  fame  of  France  were  proud  and 
glad  to  assemble  for  the  discussion  and  criticism  of 
literature.  Here  came  Balzac  and  Voiture ;  here 
Corneille  read  aloud  his  masterpieces  before  they  ^ 
were  represented  on  the  stage ;  here  Descartes 
philosophized ;  here  the  large  and  splendid  genius 
of  Bossuet  first  unfolded  itself  to  the  world ;  here 
Madame  de  S6vign6  brought  her  bright,  incisive  wit, 
trebly  commended  by  stainless  reputation,  unwither- 
ing  beauty,  and  charming  address,  in  the  woman  who 
wielded  it.  The  noblest  blood  of  France  added  the 
decoration  and  inspiration  of  their  presence.  It  is 
not  easy  to  oveiTate  the  diffusive  beneficent  influence 
that  hence  went  forth  to  change  the  fashion  of  lite- 
rature, and  to  change  the  fashion  of  society,  for  the 
better.  The  Hotel  de  Rambouillet  proper  lasted  two 
generations  only ;  but  it  had  a  virtual  succession, 
which,  though  sometimes  inten-upted,  was  scarcely 
extinct  until  the  brilliant  and  beautiful  Madame 
Rt'camier  ceased,  about  the  middle  of  the  present  y 
century,  to  hold  her  famous  salons  in  Paris.     The 


12         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

continuous  fame  and  influence  of  the  French  Acad- 
emy, founded  b}'  Richelieu,  everybody  knows.  No 
other  European  language  has  been  elaborately  and 
sedulously  formed  and  cultivated  like  the  French. 

But  great  authors  are  better  improvers  of  a  lan- 
guage than  any  societies,  however  influential.  Cor- 
neille,  Descartes,  Pascal,  did  more  for  French  style 
than  either  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet  oi'  the  Acade- 
my, —  more  than  both  these  two  great  literary  socie- 
ties together.  In  verse,  Racine,  following  Corneille, 
advanced  in  some  important  respects  upon  the  ex- 
ample and  lead  of  tiiat  great  original  master ;  but 
in  prose,  when  Pascal  published  his  "Provincial 
Letters,"  French  style  reached  at  once  a  point  of 
perfection  beyond  which  it  never  since  has  gone. 
Bossuet,  Bourdaloue,  Fenelon,  Massillon,  Moliere, 
La  Fontaine,  Boileau,  La  Rochefoucauld,  La  Bru- 
y^re,  —  what  a  constellation  of  names  are  these,  to 
xj  glorify  the  age  of  Louis  XIV. !  And  Louis  XIV^. 
himself,  royal  embodiment  of  a  literary  good  sense 
carried  to  the  pitch  of  something  very  like  real 
genius  in  judgment  and  taste,  —  what  a  sun  was  he 
(with  that  talent  of  his  for  kingship,  probably  never 
surpassed),  to  balance  and  to  sway,  from  his  un- 
shaken station,  the  august  intellectual  system  of 
which  he  alone  constituted  the  despotic  centre  to 
attract  and  repel !  Seventy-two  years  long  was  this 
sole  individual  reign.  Louis  XIV.  still  sat  on  the 
throne  of  France  when  the  seventeenth  century  be- 
came the  eio;hteenth. 


French  Literature.  13 

The  eighteenth  century  was  an  age  of  universal 
reaction  in  France.  Religion,  or  rather  eeclesiasti- 
cism,  —  for,  in  the  France  of  those  times,  religion 
was  the  Church,  and  the  Church  was  the  Roman 
Catholic  hierarchy,  —  had  been  the  dominant  fashion 
under  Louis  XIV.  Infidelity  was  a  broad  literary 
mark,  written  all  over  the  face  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  It  was  the  hour  and  power  of  the  Ency-\/ 
clopaedists  and  the  Philosophers,  —  of  Voltaire,  of 
Diderot,  of  D'Alembert,  of  Rousseau.  Montes- 
quieu, though  contemporary,  belongs  apart  from 
these  writers.  More  really  original,  more  truly 
philosophical,  he  was  far  less  revolutionary,  far  less 
destructive,  than  they.  Still,  his  influence  was,  on 
the  whole,  exerted  in  the  direction,  if  not  of  infi- 
delity, at  least  of  religious  indifferentism.  The 
French  Revolution  was  laid  in  train  by  the  great 
popular  writers  whom  we  have  now  named,  and  bj' 
their  fellows.  It  needed  only  the  spark,  which  the 
proper  occasion  would  be  sure  soon  to  strike  out, 
and  the  awful,  earth-shaking  explosion  would  follow. 
After  the  Revolution,  during  the  First  Empire,  so 
called,  —  the  usurpation,  that  is,  of  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte,—  literature  was  well-nigh  extinguished  in 
France.  The  names,  however,  then  surpassingly 
brilliant,  of  Chateaubriand  and  Madame  de  Stael, 
belong  to  this  period. 

Three  centuries  have  now  elapsod  since  the  date 
of  "The  Pleiades."  Throughout  this  long  period, 
French  literature  has  been  chiefly  Tinder  the  sway  of 


14  Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

v/that  spirit  of  classicism  in  style  which  the  reaction 
against  Ronsardism,  led  first  by  Malherbe  and  after- 
wards by  Boileau,  had  established  as  the  national 
standard  in  literary'  taste  and  aspiration.  But  Rous- 
seau's genius  act«d  as  a  powerful  solvent  of  the 
classic  tradition.  Chateaubriand's  influence  was 
felt  on  the  same  side,  continuing  Rousseau's. 
George  Sand,  too,  and  Lamartine,  were  forces  that 
strengthened  this  component.  Finally,  the  great 
personality  of  Victor  Hugo  proved  potent  enough 
definitively  to  break  the  spell  that  had  been  so  long 
and  so  heavily  laid  on  the  literary  development  of 
France.  The  bloodless  warfare  was  fierce  between 
the  revolutionary  Romanticists  and  the  conservative 
Classicists  in  literary  st3'le,  but  the  victory  seemed 
at  last  to  remain  with  the  advocates  of  the  new 
romantic  revival.  It  looked,  on  the  face  of  the 
matter,  like  a  signal  triumph  of  origiualit}'  over  pre- 
scription, of  genius  over  criticism,  of  power  over 
rule.  We  still  live  in  the  midst  of  the  dying  echoes 
of  this  resonant  strife.  Perhaps  it  is  too  early,  as 
yet,  to  determine  on  which  side,  by  the  merit  of 
the  cause,  the  advantage  truly  belongs.  But,  by 
the  merit  of  the  respective  champions,  the  result 
was,  for  a  time  at  least,  triumphantly  decided  in 
favor  of  the  Romanticists,  against  the  Classicists. 
The  weighty  authority,  however,  of  Sainte-Benve, 
at  first  thrown  into  the  scale  that  at  length  would 
sink,  was  thence  withdrawn,  and  at  last,  if  not  reso- 
lutely cast  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  balance, 


French  Literature.  16 

was  left  wavering  in  a  kind  of  equipoise  between  th«  ♦ 
one  and  the  other.     But  our  preliminary  sketch  has 
already  passed  the  limit  within  which  our  choice  of 
authors  for  representation  is  necessarily  confined. 

"With  first  a  few  remarks,  naturally  suggested, 
that  may  be  useful,  on  the  general  subject  thus 
rather  touched  merely  than  handled,  the  present 
writer  gives  way  to  let  now  the  representative  au- 
thors themselves,  selected  for  the  purpose,  supply 
to  the  reader  a  just  and  lively  idea  of  French  litera- 
ture. 

The  first  thing,  perhaps,  to  strike  the  thoughtful 
mind  in  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  subject,  is  not 
so  much  the  length  —  though  this  is  remarkable  — 
as  the  long  continuity  of  French  literary  history. 
From  its  beginning  down  to  the  actual  moment, 
French  literature  has  suffered  no  serious  break  in 
the  course  of  its  development.  There  have  been 
periods  of  greater,  and  periods  of  less,  prosperity 
and  fruit ;  but  wastes  of  marked  suspension  and 
barrenness,  there  have  been  none. 

The  second  thing  noticeable  is,  that  French  litera- 
ture has,  to  a  singular  degree,  lived  an  independent 
life  of  its  own.  It  has  found  copious  springs  of 
heal  til  and  growth  within  its  own  bosom. 

But  then,  a  third  thing  to  be  also  observed,  is  that, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  touch  of  foreign  influence, 
felt  and  acknowledged  by  this  most  proudly  and 
self-suflBciently  national  of  literatures,  has  proved 
to  it.  at  various  epochs,  a  sovereigu  force  of  revival 


16         Classic  French  Course  in  English, 

*and  elastic  expansion.  Thus,  the  great  renascence 
in  the  sixteenth  century  of  ancient  Greek  and  Latin 
letters  was  new  life  to  French  literature.  So,  again, 
Spanish  literature,  brought  into  contact  with  French 
through  Corneille  and  Moli^re  with  others,  gave  to 
the  national  mind  of  France  a  new  literar}-  launch. 
But  the  most  recent  and  i^erhaps  the  most  remark- 
able example  of  foreign  influence  quickening  French 
literature  to  make  it  freshly  fruitful,  is  supplied  in 
the  great  romanticizing  movement  under  the  lead 
of  Victor  Hugo.  English  literature  —  especially 
Shakspeare  —  was  largely  the  pregnant  cause  of 
this  attempted  emancipation  of  the  French  literary 
mind  from  the  burden  of  classicism. 

A  fourth  very  salient  trait  in  French  literary 
history  consists  in  the  self-conscious,  elaborate, 
persistent  efforts  put  forth  from  time  to  time  by 
individuals,  and  by  organizations,  both  public  antl 
private,  in  France,  to  improve  the  language,  and  to 
elevate  the  literature,  of  the  nation.  We  know  of 
nothing  altogether  comparable  to  this  anywhere  else 
in  the  literature  of  the  world. 

A  fifth  striking  thing  about  French  literature  is, 
that  it  has  to  a  degree,  as  we  believe  beyond  paral- 
lel, exercised  a  real  and  vital  influence  on  the  char- 
acter and  the  fortune  of  the  nation.  The  social,  the 
political,  the  moral,  the  religious,  history  of  France 
is  from  age  to  age  a  faithful  reflex  of  the  changing 
phases  of  its  literature.  Of  course,  a  reciprocal  in- 
fluence has  been  constantly  reflected  back  and  forth 


French  Literature.  17 

from  the  nation  upon  its  literature,  as  well  as  from 
its  literature  upon  the  uatiou.  But  where  else  in  the 
world  has  it  ever  been  so  extraordinarily,  we  may 
say  so  appallingly,  true  as  in  P>auee,  that  the  nation 
was  such  because  such  was  its  literature  ? 

French  literature,  it  will  at  once  be  seen,  is  a 
study  possessing,  beyond  the  literaVy,  a  social,  a 
political,  and  even  a  religious,  interest. 

Readers  desiring  to  push  their  conversance  with 
the  literary  history  of  France  farther  than  the  pres- 
ent volume  will  enable  them  to  do,  will  consult  with 
profit  either  the  Primer,  or  the  Short  History,  of 
French  Literature,  by  Mr.  George  Saintsbury.  Mr. 
Saintsbury  is  a  well-informed  writer,  who,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  diffuses  himself  too  widely  to  do 
his  best  possible  work.  He  has,  however,  made 
French  literature  a  specialty,  and  he  is  in  general  a 
trustworthy  authority  on  the  subject. 

Another  writer  on  the  subject  is  Mr.  H.  Van 
Laun.  Him,  although  a  predecessor  of  his  own  in 
the  field,  Mr.  Saintsbury  severely  ignores,  by  claim- 
ing that  he  is  himself  the  first  to  write  in  English  a 
history  of  French  literature  based  on  original  and 
independent  reading  of  the  authors.  We  are  bound 
to  say  that  Mr.  Van  Laun's  work  is  of  very  poor 
quality.  It  offers,  indeed,  to  the  reader  one  ad- 
vantage not  afforded  by  either  of  Mr.  Saintsbury's 
works,  the  advantage,  namely,  of  illustrative  ex- 
tracts from  the  authors  treated,  —  extracts,  however, 
not  unfrequently  marred  by  wretched  translation. 


18         Classic  French  Course  in  Unglish. 

The  cyclopaedias  are,  some  of  them,  both  in  articles 
on  particular  authors  and  in  their  sketches  of  French 
literar\'  history  as  a  whole,  good  sources  of  general 
information  on  the  subject.  Readers  who  command 
the  means  of  comparing  several  different  cyclopae- 
dias, or  several  successive  editions  of  some  one 
cyclopaedia,  as,  for  example,  the  "  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica,"  will  find  enlightening  and  stimulating 
the  not  always  harmonious  views  presented  on  the 
same  topics.  Hallam's  "  History  of  Literature  in 
Europe  "  is  an  additional  authority'  by  no  means  to 
be  overlooked. 


II. 

FROISSART. 
1337-1410, 


French  literature,  for  the  purposes  of  the  present 
volume,  may  be  said  to  commence  with  Froissart. 
Froissart  is  a  kind  of  mediaeval  Herodotus.  His 
time  is,  indeed,  almost  this  side  the  middle  ages ; 
but  he  belongs  by  character  and  by  sympathy  rather 
to  the  mediaeval  than  to  the  modern  world.  He  is 
delightfully  like  Herodotus  in  the  stj'le  and  the 
spirit  of  his  narrative.  Like  Herodotus,  he  became; 
a  traveller  in  order  to  become  an  historian.  Like 
Herodotus,  he  was  cosmopolite  enough  not  to  be 


Froissart.  19 

narrowly  patriotic.  Frenchman  though  he  was,  ha 
took  as  ranch  pleasure  iu  recounting  English  victo- 
ries as  he  did  in  recounting  French.  His  countiy- 
nien  have  even  accused  hiin  of  unpatriotic  partiality 
'  for  the  English.  His  Chronicles  have  been,  perhaps, 
more  popular  in  their  English  form  than  in  their 
original  French.  Two  prominent  English  transla- 
tions have  been  made,  of  which  the  later,  that 
by  Thomas  Johnes,  is  now  most  read.  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott  thought  the  earlier  excelled  in  charm  of 
style. 

Jehan  or  Jean  Froissart  was  a  native  of  Valen- 
ciennes. His  father  meant  to  make  a  priest  of  him, 
but  the  boy  had  other  tastes  of  his  own.  Before  he 
was  well  out  of  his  teens,  he  began  writing  history. 
This  was  under  the  patronage  of  a  great  noble.  Frois- 
sart was  all  his  life  a  natural  courtier.  He  throve 
on  the  patronage  of  the  great.  It  was  probably  not 
a  fawning  spirit  in  him  that  made  him  this  kind  of 
man ;  it  was  rather  an  innate  love  of  splendor  and 
high  exploit.  He  admired  chivalry,  then  in  its  last 
dajs,  and  he  painted  it  with  the  passion  of  an  ideal- 
izer.  His  father  had  been  an  heraldic  painter,  so  it 
was  perhaps  an  hereditary  strain  in  the  son  that 
naturally  attached  him  to  rank  and  royaltj'.  The 
people  —  that  is,  the  promiscuous  mass  of  mankind 
—  hardly  exist  to  Froissart.  His  pages,  spacious  as 
they  are,  have  scarcely  room  for  more  than  kmgs 
and  nobles,  and  knights  and  squires.  He  is  a  pic- 
turesque and  romantic  historian,  in  whose  chronicles 


20         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

the  glories  of  the  world  of  chivalry  —  a  world,  as  we 
have  said,  already-  dying,  and  so  soon  to  disappear 
—  are  fixed  forever  on  an  ample  canvas,  in  moving 
form  and  shifting  color,  to  delight  the  backward- 
looking  imagination  of  mankind. 

Froissart,  besides  being  chronicler,  was  something 
of  a  poet.  It  would  still  be  possible  to  confront  one 
who  should  call  this  in  question,  with  thirty  thou- 
sand surviving  verses  from  the  chronicler's  pen. 
Quantity,  indeed,  rather  than  quality,  is  the  strong 
point  of  Froissart  as  poet. 

He  had  no  sooner  finished  the  first  part  of  his 
Chronicles,  a  compilation  from  the  work  of  an  earlier 
hand,  than  he  posted  to  England  for  the  purpose 
of  formally  presenting  his  work  to  the  Queen,  a 
princess  of  Hainault.  She  rewarded  him  hand 
somely.  Woman  enough,  too,  she  was,  woman  under 
the  queen,  duly  to  despatch  him  back  again  to  his 
native  land,  where  the  joung  fellow's  heart,  she  saw, 
was  lost  to  a  noble  lady,  whom,  from  his  inferior 
station,  he  could  woo  only  as  a  moth  might  woo  the 
moon.  He  subsequently  returned  to  Great  Britain, 
and  rode  about  on  horseback  gathering  materials  of 
histor}-.  He  visited  Italy  under  excellent  auspices, 
and,  together  with  Chaucer  and  with  Petrarch,  wit- 
nessed a  magnificent  marriage  ceremonial  in  Milan. 
Froissart  continued  to  travel  far  and  wide,  always 
a  favorite  with  princes,  but  always  intent  on  achiev- 
ing his  projected  work.  He  finally  died  at  Chimay, 
where  he  had  spent  his  closing  years  in  rounding 


Froissart.  21 

Dut  to  their  completeness  his  "  Chronicles  of  Eng- 
land, France,  and  the  Adjoining  Countries." 

Froissart  is  the  most  leisurely  of  historians,  or, 
rather,  he  is  a  writer  who  presupposes  the  largest 
allowance  of  leisure  at  the  command  of  his  readers. 
He  does  not  seek  proportion  and  perspective.  He 
simply  tells  us  all  he  had  been  able  to  find  out  re- 
specting each  transaction  in  its  turn  as  it  successively 
comes  up  in  the  progress  of  his  narrative.  If  he 
goes  wrong  to-day,  he  will  perhaps  correct  himself 
to-morrow,  or  day  after  to-morrow,  —  this  not  by 
changing  the  first  record  where  it  stands,  to  make  it 
right,  but  by  inserting  a  note  of  his  mistake  at  the 
point,  whatever  it  may  be,  which  he  shall  chance  to 
have  reached  in  the  work  of  composition  when  the 
new  and  better  light  breaks  in  on  his  eyes.  The 
student  is  thus  never  quite  certain  but  that  what  he 
is  at  one  moment  reading  in  his  author,  may  be  an 
en'or  of  which  at  some  subsequent  moment  he  will  be 
faithfully  advised.  A  little  discomposing,  this,  but 
such  is  Froissart ;  and  it  is  the  philosophical  wa^-  to 
take  your  autlior  as  he  is,  and  make  the  best  of  him. 

Of  such  an  historian,  an  historian  so  diffuse,  and 
so  little  selective,  it  would  obviously  be  difficult  to 
give  any  suitably  brief  specimen  that  should  seem 
to  present  a  considerable  historic  action  in  full.  We 
go  to  Froissart's  account  of  the  celebrated  battle 
of  Poitiers  (France).  This  was  fought  in  1356, 
between  Edward  the  Black  Prince  on  the  English 
side,  and  King  John  on  the  side  of  the  French. 


22         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

King  John  of  the  French  was,  of  course,  a  great 
prize  to  be  secured  by  the  victorious  English. 
There  was  eager  individual  rivalry  as  to  what  par- 
ticular warrior  should  be  adjudged  his  true  captor. 
Froissart  thus  describes  the  strife  and  the  issue :  — 

There  was  much  pressing  at  this  time,  through  eager- 
ness to  take  the  king;  and  those  who  were  nearest  to  him, 
an;l  knew  him,  cried  out,  "Surrender  yourself,  surrender 
yourself,  or  you  are  a  dead  man!"  In  that  part  of  the  field 
was  a  young  knight  from  St.  Omer,  who  was  engaged  by  a 
salary  in  the  service  of  the  King  of  England;  his  name  was 
Deiiys  de  Morbeque;  who  for  five  years  had  attached  himself 
to  tiie  English,  on  account  of  having  been  banished  in  his 
younger  days  from  France,  for  a  murder  committed  in  an 
ajf ray  at  St.  Omer.  It  fortunately  happened  for  this  kniglit, 
Ludt  he  was  at  the  time  near  to  the  King  of  France,  when  he 
was  so  much  pulled  about.  He,  by  dint  of  force,  for  he  was 
very  strong  and  robust,  pushed  through  the  crowd,  and  said 
to  the  king,  in  good  French,  "  Sire,  sire,  surrender  yourself ! ' ' 
The  king,  who  found  himself  very  disagreeably  situated, 
turning  to  him,  asked,  "To  whom  shall  I  surrender  myself  ? 
to  wlioni  ?  Where  is  my  cousin,  the  Prince  of  Wales  ?  If 
I  could  see  him,  I  would  speak  to  him."  —  "  Sire,"  replied  Sir 
Denys,  "  he  is  not  here;  but  surrender  yourself  to  me,  and  I 
will  lead  you  to  him."  —  "Who  are  you?"  said  the  king. 
"  Sire,  I  am  Denys  de  Morbeque,  a  knight  from  Artois;  but  I 
serve  the  King  of  England  because  I  cannot  belong  to  France, 
having  forfeited  all  I  possessed  there."  The  king  then 
gave  him  his  right-hand  glove,  and  said,  "  I  surrender  my- 
S'>lf  to  you."  There  was  much  crowding  and  pushing  about; 
for  every  one  was  eager  to  ciy  out,  "I  have  taken  him!" 
Xeither  the  king  nor  his  youngest  son  Philip  were  able  to 
get  forward,  and  free  themselves  from  the  throng.  .  .  . 

T'.i'-  Piince  [of  Wales]  asked  them  [his  marshals]  if  they 
knew  j,ny  thing  of  the  King  of  France:  they  replied,  "  'N'o, 


Froissart.  23 

sir,  not  for  a  certainty;  but  we  believe  he  must  be  either 
killed  or  made  prisoner,  since  he  has  never  quitted  his  bat- 
talion." The  prince  then,  addressing  the  Earl  of  War- 
nick  and  Lord  Cobhara,  said,  "  I  beg  of  you  to  mount  your 
horses,  and  ride  over  the  field,  so  that  on  your  return  you 
may  bring  me  some  certain  intelligence  of  him."  The  two 
barons,  immediately  mounting  their  horses,  left  the  prince, 
an.l  made  for  a  small  hillock,  that  they  might  look  about 
them.  From  their  stand  they  perceived  a  crowd  of  men- 
at-arms  on  foot,  who  were  advancing  very  slowly.  The 
King  of  France  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  in  great  dan- 
ger ;  for  the  English  and  Gascons  had  taken  him  from  Sir 
Denys  de  Morbeque,  and  were  disputing  who  should  have 
him,  the  stoutest  bawling  out,  "  It  is  I  that  have  got  him."  — 
"  No,  no,"  replied  the  others:  "  we  have  him."  The  king,  to 
escape  from  this  peril,  said,  "Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  I  pray 
you  conduct  me  and  my  son  in  a  courteous  manner  to  my 
cousin  the  prince;  and  do  not  make  such  a  riot  about  my 
capture,  for  I  am  so  great  a  lord  that  I  can  make  aH  suffi- 
ciently rich."  These  words,  and  others  which  fell  from  the 
king,  appeased  them  a  little;  but  the  disputes  were  alwaj-s 
beginning  again,  and  they  did  not  move  a  step  without  riot- 
ing. When  the  two  barons  saw  this  troop  of  people,  they 
descended  from  the  hillock,  and,  sticking  spurs  into  their 
horses,  made  up  to  them.  On  their  arrival,  they  asked  what 
was  the  matter.  They  were  answered,  that  it  was  the  King 
of  France,  who  had  been  made  prisoner,  and  that  upward 
of  ten  knights  and  squires  challenged  him  at  the  same  time, 
as  belonging  to  each  of  them.  The  two  barons  then  pushed 
through  the  crowd  by  main  force,  and  ordered  all  to  draw 
aside.  They  commanded,  in  the  name  of  the  prince,  and 
under  pain  of  instant  death,  that  every  one  should  keep  his 
distance,  and  not  approach  unless  ordered  or  desired  so  to 
do.  They  all  retreated  behind  the  king;  and  the  two  barons, 
dismounting,  advanced  to  the  king  with  profound  reverences, 
and  conducted  him  in  a  peaceable  manner  to  the  Prince  of 
Wales. 


24         Classic  French  Course  in  I]nglish. 

"We  continue  our  citation  from  Froissart  with  the 
brief  chapter  in  which  the  admiring  chronicler  tells 
the  gallant  story  of  the  Black  Prince's  behavior  as 
host  toward  his  royal  captive,  King  John  of  France 
(it  was  the  evening  after  the  battle) :  — 

When  evening  was  come,  the  Prince  of  Wales  gave  a 
supper  in  his  pavilion  to  the  King  of  France,  and  to  the 
greater  part  of  the  princes  and  barons  who  were  prisoners. 
The  prince  seated  the  King  of  France,  and  his  son  the  Lord 
Philip,  at  an  elevated  and  well-covered  table:  with  them 
were  Sir  James  de  Bourbon,  the  Lord  John  d'Artois,  the 
earls  of  Tancarville,  of  Estampes,  of  Dammartin,  of  Gra- 
ville,  and  the  Lord  of  Partenay,  The  other  knights  and 
squires  were  placed  at  different  tables.  The  prince  himself 
served  the  king's  table,  as  well  as  the  others,  with  every 
mark  of  humility,  and  would  not  sit  down  at  it,  in  spite  of 
all  his  entreaties  for  him  so  to  do,  saying  that  "he  was  not 
worthy  of  such  an  honor,  nor  did  it  appertain  to  him  to  seat 
himself  at  the  table  of  so  great  a  king,  or  of  so  valiant  a 
man  as  he  had  shown  himself  by  his  actions  that  day."  He 
added,  also,  with  a  noble  air,  "  Dear  sir,  do  not  make  a  poor 
meal,  because  the  Almighty  God  has  not  gratified  your 
wishes  in  the  event  of  this  day ;  for  be  assured  that  my  lord 
and  father  will  show  you  every  honor  and  friendship  in  his 
power,  and  will  arrange  your  ransom  so  reasonably,  that  you 
will  henceforward  always  remain  friends.  In  my  opinion, 
you  have  cause  to  be  glad  that  the  success  .of  this  battle  did 
not  turn  out  as  you  desired ;  for  you  have  this  day  acquired 
such  high  renown  for  prowess,  that  you  have  surpassed  all 
the  best  knights  on  your  side.  I  do  not,  dear  sir,  say  this 
to  flatter  you ;  for  all  those  of  our  side  who  have  seen  and 
observed  the  actions  of  each  party,  have  unanimously 
allowed  this  to  be  your  due,  and  decree  you  the  prize  and 
garland  for  it."  At  the  end  of  this  speech,  there  were  mur- 
murs of  praise  heard  from  every  one;  and  the  French  said 


Froissart.  25 

the  prince  had  spoken  nobly  and  truly,  and  that  he  would 
be  one  of  the  most  gallant  princes  in  Christendom  if  Gwl 
should  grant  him  life  to  pursue  his  career  of  glory. 

A  splendid  and  a  gracious  figure  the  Black  Priuco 
makes  in  the  pages  of  Froissart.  It  was  great  good 
fortune  for  the  posthumous  fame  of  chivalry,  that  the 
institution  should  have  come  by  an  artist  so  gifted 
and  so  loyal  as  this  Frenchman,  to  deliver  its  fea- 
tures in  portrait  to  after-times,  before  the  living 
original  vanished  forever  from  the  view  of  history. 
How  much  the  fiction  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  owes  to 
Froissart,  and  to  Philip  de  Comines  after  froissart, 
those  only  can  understand  who  have  read  both  the 
old  chronicles  and  the  modern  romances. 

It  was  one  of  the  congenial  labors  of  Sidney 
Lanier  —  pure  flame  of  genius  that  late  burned  it- 
self out  so  swiftly  among  us  !  —  to  edit  a  reduction 
or  abridgment  of  Froissart' s  Chronicles  dedicated 
especially  to  the  use  of  the  joung.  "  The  Boy's 
Froissart,"  he  called  it.  This  book  is  enriched  with 
a  wise  and  genial  appreciation  of  Froissart's  quality 
by  his  American  editor. 

Whoever  reads  Froissart  needs  to  remember  that 
the  old  chronicler  is  too  much  enamoured  of  chivalry, 
and  is  too  easily  dazzled  by  splendor  of  rank,  to  be 
a  rigidly  just  censor  of  faults  committed  by  knights 
and  nobles  and  kings.  Froissart,  in  truth,  seems 
to  have  been  nearly  destitute  of  the  sentiment  of 
humanity.  War  to  him  was  chiefly  a  game  and  c, 
spectacle. 


26         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

'  Our  presentation  of  Froissart  must  close  with  a 
single  passage  additional,  a  picturesque  one,  in  which 
the  chronicler  describes  the  style  of  living  witnessed 
by  him  at  the  court  —  we  may  not  unfitly  so  apply 
a  royal  word  —  of  the  Count  de  Foix.  The  reader 
must  understand,  while  he  reads  what  we  here  show, 
that  Froissart  himself,  in  close  connection,  relates 
at  full,  in  the  language  of  an  informant  of  his,  how 
this  magnificent  Count  de  Foix  had  previously  killed, 
with  a  knife  at  his  throat,  his  own  and  his  only  son. 
"  I  was  truly  sorry,"  so,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
story,  Froissart,  with  characteristic  direction  of 
bis  sympathy,  says,  "  for  the  count  his  father, 
whom  I  found  a  magnificent,  generous,  and  cour- 
teous lord,  and  also  for  the  country  that  was  discon- 
tented for  want  of  an  heir."  Here  is  the  promised 
passage ;  it  occurs  in  the  ninth  chapter  of  the  third 
volume :  — 

Count  Gaston  Phoebus  de  Foix,  of  whom  I  am  now  speak- 
ing, was  at  that  time  fifty-nine  years  old  ;  and  I  must  say, 
that  although  I  have  seen  very  many  knights,  kings,  princes, 
and  others,  1  have  never  seen  any  so  handsome,  eitlier  in  the 
form  of  his  limbs  and  shape,  or  in  countenance,  which  was 
fair  and  ruddy,  with  gray  and  amorous  eyes,  that  gave 
delight  whenever  he  chose  to  express  affection.  He  was  so 
perfectly  formed,  one  could  not  praise  him  too  much.  He 
loved  earnestly  the  things  he  ought  to  love,  and  hated  those 
which  it  was  becoming  him  so  to  hate.  He  was  a  prudent 
knight,  full  of  enterprise  and  wisdom.  He  had  never  any 
men  of  abandoned  character  with  him,  reigned  prudently, 
and  was  constant  in  his  devotions.  There  were  regular 
nocturnals  from  the  Psalter,  prayers  from  the  rituals  to  the 


Froissart.  27 

Virgin,  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  from  the  burial  service. 
He  had  every  day  distributed  as  alms,  at  his  gate,  five  florins 
in  small  coin,  to  all  comers.  He  was  liberal  and  courteous 
in  his  gifts,  and  well  knew  how  to  take  when  it  was  proper, 
and  to  give  back  where  he  had  confidence.  He  mightily 
loved  dogs  above  all  other  animals,  and  during  the  summer 
and  winter  amused  himself  much  with  hunting.  .  .  . 

When  he  quitted  his  chamber  at  midnight  for  supper, 
twelve  servants  bore  each  a  lighted  torch  before  him,  which 
were  placed  near  his  table,  and  gave  a  brilliant  light  to 
the  apartment.  The  hall  was  full  of  knights  and  squires, 
and  there  were  plenty  of  tables  laid  out  for  any  person  who 
chose  to  sup.  No  one  spoke  to  him  at  his  table,  unless  he 
first  began  a  conversation.  He  commonly  ate  heartily  of 
poultry,  but  only  the  wings  and  thighs;  for  in  the  daytime, 
he  neither  ate  nor  drank  much.  He  had  great  pleasure  in 
hearing  minstrels;  as  he  himself  was  a  proficient  in  the 
science,  and  made  his  secretaries  sing  songs,  ballads,  and 
roundelays.  He  remained  at  table  about  two  hours,  and 
was  pleased  when  fanciful  dishes  were  served  up  to  him, 
which  having  seen,  he  immediately  sent  them  to  the  tables 
of  his  knights  and  squires. 

In  short,  every  thing  considered,  though  I  had  before  been 
in  several  courts  of  kings,  dukes,  princes,  counts,  and  noble 
ladies,  1  was  never  at  one  that  pleased  me  more,  nor  was  I 
ever  more  delighted  with  feats  of  arms,  than  at  this  of  the 
Count  de  Foix.  There  were  knights  and  squires  to  be  seen 
in  every  chamber,  hall,  and  court,  going  backwards  and 
forwards,  and  conversing  on  arms  and  amours.  Every  thing 
honorable  was  tlierS  to  be  found.  All  intelligence  from 
distant  countries  was  there  to  be  learnt,  for  the  gallantry  of 
the  count  had  brought  visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 
It  was  there  I  was  informed  of  the  greater  part  of  those 
events  which  had  happened  in  Spain,  Portugal,  Arragon, 
Navarre,  England,  Scotland,  and  on  the  borders  of  Lan- 
guedoc  ;  for  I  saw,  during  my  residence,  knights  and  squires 


28        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

arrive  from  every  nation.  I  therefore  made  inquiries  from 
them,  or  from  the  count  himself,  who  cheerfully  conversed 
with  me. 

The  foregoing  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  pas- 
sages of  description  in  Froissart.  At  the  same  time 
that  it  discloses  the  form  and  spirit  of  those  vanished 
days,  which  will  never  come  again  to  the  world,  it 
discloses  likewise  the  character  of  the  man,  who 
must  indeed  have  loved  it  all  well,  to  have  been 
able  so  well  to  describe  it. 

We  take  now  a  somewhat  long  forward  step,  in 
going,  as  we  do,  at  once  from  Froissart  to  Rabelais. 
Comines,  l^'ing  between,  we  must  reluctantly  pass, 
with  thus  barely  mentioning  his  name. 


III. 

RABELAIS. 
1495-1553. 


Rabelais  is  one  of  the  most  famous  of  writers. 
But  he  is  at  the  same  time  incomparably  the  coarsest. 

The  real  quality  of  such  a  writer,  it  is  evidently 
out  of  the  question  to  exhibit  at  all  adequately  here. 
But  equally  out  of  the  question  it  is  to  omit  Rabelais 
altogether  from  an  account  of  French  literature. 

Of  the  life  of  Fran9ois  Rabelais  the  man,  these 


Rabelais.  .   29 

few  facts  will  be  sufficient  to  know.  In  early 
youtli  he  joined  the  monastic  order  of  the  Francis- 
cans. That  order  hated  letters  ;  but  Rabelais  loved 
them.  He,  in  fact,  conceived  a  voracious  ambition 
of  knowledge.  He  became  immensely  learned. 
This  fact,  with  what  it  implies  of  long  labor  pa- 
tiently achieved,  is  enough  to  show  that  Rabelais 
was  not  without  seriousness  of  character.  But  he 
was  much  more  a  merry-andrew  than  a  pattern 
monk.  He  made  interest  enough  with  influential 
friends  to  get  himself  transferred  from  the  Francis- 
cans to  the  Benedictines,  an  order  more  favorable 
to  studious  pursuits.  But  neither  among  the  Bene- 
dictines was  this  roistering  spirit  at  ease.  He  left 
them  irregularly,  but  managed  to  escape  punishment 
for  his  irregularity.  At  last,  after  various  vicissi- 
tudes of  occupation,  he  settled  down  as  curate  of 
Meudon,  where  (the  place,  however,  is  doubtful,  as 
also  the  date)  in  1553  he  died.  He  was  past  fifty 
years  of  age  before  he  finished  the  work  which  has 
made  him  famous. 

This  work  is  "The  Life  of  Gargantua  and  Pan- 
tagruel,"  a  grotesque  and  nondescript  production, 
founded,  probably,  on  some  prior  romance  or  tradi- 
tionary tale  of  giants.  The  narrative  of  Rabelais  is 
a  tissue  of  adventures  shocking  every  idea  of  veri- 
similitude, and  serving  only  as  a  vehicle  for  the. 
strange  humor  of  the  writer.  The  work  is  replete 
with  evidences  of  Rabelais's  learning.  It  would  be 
useless  to  attempt  giving  any  abstract  or  analysis 


30         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

of  a  book  which  is  simply  a  wild  chaos  of  material 
jumbled  together  with  little  regard  to  logic,  order, 
or  method  of  whatever  sort.  We  shall  better 
represent  its  character  by  giving  a  few  specimen 
extracts, 

Rabelais  begins  his  romance  characteristically. 
According  as  you  understand  him  here,  you  judge 
the  spirit  of  the  whole  work.  Either  he  now  gives 
you  a  clew  by  which,  amid  the  mazes  of  apparent 
sheer  frivolity  on  his  part,  jou  may  follow  till  you 
win  your  way  to  some  veiled  serious  meaning  that 
he  had  all  the  time,  but  never  dared  frankly  to 
avow  -,  or  else  he  is  playful!}'  misleading  you  on  a 
false  scent,  which,  however  long  held  to,  will  bring 
you  out  nowhere  —  in  short,  is  quizzing  3'ou.  Let 
the  reader  judge  for  himself.  Here  is  the  opening 
passage,  —  the  "  Author's  Prologue,"  it  is  called  in 
the  English  translation  executed  by  Sir  Thomas 
Urquhart  and  Motteux ;  a  version,  by  the  way, 
which,  with  whatever  faults  of  too  much  freedom,  is 
the  work  of  minds  and  consciences  singularly  sym- 
pathetic with  the  genius  of  the  original ;  the  English 
student  is  perhaps  hardly  at  all  at  disadvantage,  in 
comparison  with  the  French,  for  the  full  appreciation 
of  Rabelais :  — 

Most  noble  and  illustrious  drinkers,  and  you  thrice 
precious  pockified  blades  (for  to  you,  and  none  else,  do  I 
dedicate  my  writings),  Alcibiades,  in  that  dialogue  of  Plato's 
w^hich  is  entitled,  "  The  Banquet,"  whilst  he  was  setting  forth 
the  praises  of  Ms  schoolmaster  Socrates  (without  all  question 


Rabelais.  81 

the  prince  of  philosophers),  amongst  other  discourses  to  that 
purpose  said  that  he  resembled  the  Sileni.  Sileni  of  old 
were  little  boxes,  like  those  we  now  may  see  in  the  shops 
of  apothecaries,  painted  on  the  outside  with  wanton  toyish 
figures,  as  harpies,  satyrs,  bridled  geese,  horned  hares,  sad- 
dled ducks,  flying  goats,  thiller  harts,  and  other  such  coun- 
terfeited pictures,  at  pleasure,  to  excite  people  unto  laughter, 
as  Silenus  himself,  who  was  the  foster-father  of  good  Bac- 
chus, was  wont  to  do;  but  within  those  capricious  caskets 
called  Sileni,  were  carefully  preserved  and  kept  many  rich 
and  fine  drugs,  such  as  balm,  ambergreese,  amomon,  musk, 
civet,  with  several  kinds  of  precious  stones,  and  other  things 
of  great  price.  Just  such  another  thing  was  Socrates;  for 
to  have  eyed  his  outside,  and  esteemed  of  him  by  his  exte- 
rior appearance,  you  would  not  have  given  the  peel  of  an 
onion  for  him,  so  deformed  he  was  in  body,  and  ridiculous 
in  his  gesture.  .  .  .  Opening  this  box,  you  would  have  found 
within  it  a  heavenly  and  inestimable  drug,  a  more  than  hu- 
man understanding,  an  admirable  virtue,  matchless  learning, 
invincible  courage,  inimitable  sobriety,  certain  contentment 
of  mind,  perfect  assurance,  and  an  incredible  disregard  of 
all  that  for  which  men  conunonly  do  so  much  watch,  run, 
sail,  fight,  travel,  toil,  and  turmoil  themselves, 

VVhereunto  (in  your  opinion)  doth  this  little  flourish  of 
a  preamble  tend?  For  so  much  as  you,  my  good  disciples, 
and  some  other  jolly  fools  of  ease  and  leisure,  .  •  .  are  too 
ready  to  judge,  that  there  is  nothing  in  them  but  jests, 
mockeries,  lascivious  discourse,  and  recreative  lies;  .  .  . 
therefore  is  it,  that  you  must  open  the  book,  and  seriously 
consider  of  the  matter  treated  in  it.  Then  shall  you  find 
that  it  containeth  things  of  far  higher  value  than  the  box 
did  promise ;  that  is  to  say,  that  the  subject  thereof  is  not  so 
foolish,  as  by  the  title  at  the  first  sight  it  would  appear  to 
be. 

.  .  .  Did  you  ever  see  a  dog  with  a  marrow-bone  in  his 
mouth?  .  .  .  Like  him,  you  must,  by  a  sedulous  lecture 


( 


32         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

[reading],  and  frequent  meditation,  break  the  bone,  and 
suck  out  the  marrow;  that  is,  my  allegorical  sense,  or  the 
things  I  to  myself  propose  to  be  signified  by  these  Pytha- 
gorical  symbols ;  .  .  •  the  most  glorious  doctrines  and  dread- 
ful mysteries,  as  well  in  what  concerneth  our  religion,  as 
matters  of  the  public  state  and  life  economical. 

Up  to  this  point,  the  candid  reader  has  probably 
been  conscious  of  a  growing  persuasion  that  this 
author  must  be  at  bottom  a  serious  if  also  a  humor- 
ous man,  —  a  man,  therefore,  excusably  intent  not 
to  be  misunderstood  as  a  mere  buffoon.  But  now 
let  the  candid  reader  proceed  with  the  following, 
and  confess,  upon  his  honor,  if  he  is  not  scandalized 
and  perplexed.  What  shall  be  said  of  a  writer  who 
thus  plays  with  his  reader? 

Do  you  believe,  upon  your  conscience,  that  Homer, 
whilst  he  was  couching  his  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  had  any 
thought  upon  those  allegories  which  Plutarch,  Heraclides 
Ponticus,  Eustathius,  Phornutus,  squeezed  out  of  him,  and 
which  Politian  filched  again  from  them  ?  If  you  trust  it, 
with  neither  hand  nor  foot  do  you  come  near  to  my  opinion, 
which  judgeth  them  to  have  been  as  little  dreamed  of  by 
Homer,  as  the  gospel  sacraments  were  by  Ovid,  in  his  Meta- 
morphoses ;  though  a  certain  gulligut  friar,  and  true  bacon- 
picker,  would  have  undertaken  to  prove  it,  if,  perhaps,  he 
had  met  with  as  very  fools  as  himself,  and,  as  the  proverb 
says,  "a lid  worthy  of  such  a  kettle." 

If  you  give  any  credit  thereto,  why  do  not  you  the  same 
to  these  jovial  new  Chronicles  of  mine?  Albeit,  when  I 
did  dic'a^e  them,  I  thought  thereof  no  more  than  you,  who 
possibly  were  drinking  the  whilst,  as  I  was.  For,  in  the 
composing  of  tliis  lordly  book,  I  never  lost  nor  bestowed 
any  more,  uor  any  other  time,  than  what  was  appointed  to 


Rahelais.  33 

serve  me  for  taking  of  my  bodily  refection ;  tliat  is,  whilst  I 
was  eating  and  drinking.  And,  indeed,  that  is  the  fittest 
and  most  pjoper  hour,  wherein  to  write  these  high  matters 
and  deep  sentences;  as  Homer  knew  very  well,  the  paragon 
of  all  philologues,  and  Ennius,  the  father  of  the  Latin 
poets,  as  Horace  calls  him,  although  a  certain  sneaking 
jobbemol  alleged  that  his  verses  smelled  more  o^  the  wine 
than  oil. 

Does  this  writer  quiz  his  reader,  or,  in  good  faith, 
give  him  a  needed  hint  ?     Who  shall  decide  ? 

We  have  let  our  first  extract  thus  run  on  to  some 
length,  both  for  the  reason  that  the  passage  is  as 
representative  as  any  we  could  properly  offer  of  the 
quality  of  Rabelais,  and  also  for  the  reason  that 
the  key  of  interpretation  is  here  placed  in  the  hand 
of  the  reader,  for  unlocking  the  enigma  of  this  re- 
markable book.  The  extraordinary  horse-play  of 
pleasantry,  which  makes  Rabelais  unreadable  for  the 
general  public  of  to-day,  begins  so  promptly,  affect- 
ing the  very  prologue,  that  we  could  not  present 
even  that  piece  of  writing  entire  in  our  extract. 
We  are  informed  that  the  circulation  in  England  of 
the  works  of  Rabelais,  in  translation,  has  been  in- 
terfered with  by  the  English  government,  on  the 
ground  of  their  indecency.  We  are  bound  to  admit, 
that,  if  any  writings  whatever  were  to  be  suppressed 
on  that  ground,  the  writings  of  Rabelais  are  certainly 
entitled  to  be  of  the  number.  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
never,  no,  not  even  in  the  boundless  license  of  the 
comedy  of  Aristophanes,  was  more  flagrant  inde- 
cenc}',  and  indecency  proportionately  more  redun- 


84         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

dant  in  volume,  perpetrated  in  literature,  than  was 
done  by  Rabelais.  Indecency,  however,  it  is,  rather 
than  strict  lasciviousness.  Rabelais  sinned  against 
manners,  more  than  he  sinned  against  morals.  But 
his  obscenity  is  an  ocean,  without  bottom  or  shore. 
Literally,  he  sticks  at  nothing  that  is  coarse.  Nay, 
this  is  absurdly  short  of  expressing  the  fact.  The 
genius  of  Rabelais  teems  with  invention  of  coarse- 
ness, beyond  what  any  one  could  conceive  as  pos- 
sible, who  had  not  taken  his  measure  of  possibility 
from  Rabelais  himself.  And  his  diction  was  as 
opulent  as  his  invention. 

Such  is  the  character  of  Rabelais  the  author. 
"What,  then,  was  it,  if  not  fondness  for  paradox, 
that  could  prompt  Coleridge  to  say,  "  I  could  write 
a  treatise  in  praise  of  the  moral  elevation  of  Rabe- 
lais' works,  which  would  make  the  church  stare 
and  the  conventicle  groan,  and  yet  would  be  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth  "?  If  any  thing  besides 
fondness  for  paradox  inspired  Coleridge  in  saying 
this,  it  must,  one  would  guess,  have  been  belief  on 
his  part  in  the  allegorical  sense  hidden  deep  under- 
neath the  monstrous  mass  of  the  Rabelaisian  buf- 
foonery. A  more  judicial  sentence  is  that  of 
Hallam,  the  historian  of  the  literature  of  Europe: 
"He  [Rabelais]  is  never  serious  in  a  single  page, 
and  seems  to  have  had  little  other  aim,  in  his  first 
two  volumes,  than  to  pour  out  the  exuberance  of 
his  animal  gayety." 

The  supply  of  animal  gayety  iu  this  man  wai 


Rabelais.  35 

sometliing  portentous.  One  cannot,  however,  but 
feel  that  he  forces  it  sometimes,  as  sometimes  did 
Dickens  those  exhaustless  animal  spirits  of  his.  A 
very  common  trick  of  tlie  Rabelaisian  humor  is  to 
multiply  specifications,  or  alternative  expressions, 
one  after  another,  almost  without  end.  From  the 
second  book  of  his  romance,  —  an  afterthought, 
probably,  of  continuation  to  his  unexpectedly  suc- 
cessful first  book,  —  we  take  the  last  paragraph  of 
the  prologue,  which  shows  this.  The  veracious  his- 
torian makes  obtestation  of  the  strict  truth  of  his 
narrative,  and  imprecates  all  sorts  of  evil  upon  such 
as  do  not  believe  it  absolutely.  We  cleanse  our 
extract  a  little  :  — 

And,  therefore,  to  make  an  end  of  this  Prologue,  even 
as  I  give  mjself  to  an  hundred  thousand  panniers-full  of 
f  lir  devils,  body  and  soul,  ...  in  case  that  I  lie  so  much  as 
one  single  word  in  this  whole  history;  after  the  like  manner, 
St,.  Anthony's  fire  burn  you,  Mahoom's  disease  whirl  you, 
tlie  STuinaiice  with  a  stitch  in  your  side,  and  the  wolf  in 
your  stomach  truss  you,  the  bloody  flux  seize  upon  you,  the 
cursed  sharp  inflamniations  of  wild  fire,  as  slender  and  thin 
f.s  cow's  hair  strengtlicneJ  with  quicksilver,  enter  into  you, 
.  .  .  and,  like  those  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrha,  may  you  fall 
into  sulphur,  fi -e,  an  1  bottomless  pits,  in  case  you  do  not 
fi.-mly  believe  all  that  I  shall  relate  unto  you  in  this  present 
Chronicle. 

So  much  for  Rabelais's  prologues.  Our  readers 
must  now  see  something  of  what,  under  pains  and 
penalties  denounced  so  dire,  they  are  bound  to  be- 
lieve.    We  condense  and  defecate  for  this  purpose 


36         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

the  thirty-eighth  chapter  of  the  first  book,  which  is 
staggeringly  entitled,  "  How  Gargantua  did  eat  up 
Six  Pilgrims  in  a  Sallad  "  :  — 

The  story  requireth  that  we  relate  that  which  happened 
unto  six  pilgrims,  who  came  from  Sebastian  near  to  Nantes; 
and  who,  for  shelter  that  night,  being  afraid  of  the  enemy, 
had  hid  themselves  in  the  garden  upon  the  chickling  peas, 
among  the  cabbages  and  lettuces.  Gargantua,  finding  him- 
self somewhat  dry,  asked  whether  they  could  get  any  lettuce 
to  make  him  a  sallad;  and,  hearing  that  there  were  the 
greatest  and  fairest  in  the  country,  — for  they  were  as  great 
as  plum  trees,  or  as  walnut  trees, — he  would  go  thither 
himself,  and  brought  thence  in  his  hand  what  he  thought 
good,  and  withal  carried  away  the  six  pilgrims,  who  were  in 
so  great  fear  that  they  did  not  dare  to  speak  nor  cough. 
Washing  them,  therefore,  first  at  the  fountain,  the  pilgrims 
said  one  to  another,  softly,  "  What  shall  we  do  ?  We  are 
almost  drowned  here  amongst  these  lettuce:  shall  we  speak  ? 
But,  if  we  speak,  he  will  kill  us  for  spies."  And,  as  they 
were  thus  deliberating  what  to  do,  Gargantua  put  them, 
with  the  lettuce,  into  a  platter  of  the  house,  as  large  as  the 
huge  tun  of  the  White  Friars  of  the  Cistertian  order;  which 
done,  with  oil,  vinegar,  and  salt,  he  ate  them  up,  to  refresh 
himself  a  little  before  supper,  and  had  already  swallowed  up 
five  of  the  pilgrims,  the  sixth  being  in  the  platter,  totally 
hid  under  a  lettuce,  except  his  bourbon,  or  staff,  that  ap- 
peared, and  nothing  else.  Which  Grangousier  [Gargantua's 
father]  seeing,  said  to  Gargantua,  "  I  think  that  is  the  horn 
of  a  shell  snail :  do  not  eat  it."  —  "  Why  not  ?  "  said  Gargan- 
tua; "they  are  good  all  this  month:"  which  he  no  sooner 
said,  but,  drawing  up  the  staff,  and  therewith  taking  up  the 
pilgrim,  he  ate  him  very  well,  then  drank  a  terrible  draught 
of  excellent  white  wine.  The  pilgrims,  thus  devoured, 
made  shift  to  save  themselves,  as  well  as  they  could,  by 
drawing  their  bodies  out  of  the  reach  of  the  grinders  of  hia 


Rabelais.  37 

teeth,  but  could  not  escape 'from  thinking  they  had  been  put 
in  the  lowest  dungeon  of  a  prison.  And,  when  Gargantua 
jvhiffed  the  great  draught,  they  thought  to  have  drowned  in 
his  mouth,  and  the  flood  of  wine  had  almost  carried  them 
away  into  the  gulf  of  his  stomach.  Nevertheless,  skipping 
with  their  bourbons,  as  St.  Michael's  palmers  used  to  do, 
they  sheltered  themselves  from  the  danger  of  that  inunda- 
tion under  the  banks  of  his  teeth.  But  one  of  them,  by 
chance,  groping,  or  sounding  the  country  with  his  staff,  to 
try  whether  they  were  in  safety  or  no,  struck  hard  against 
the  cleft  of  a  hollow  tooth,  and  hit  the  mandibulary  sinew 
or  nerve  of  the  jaw,  which  put  Gargantua  to  very  great 
pain,  so  that  he  began  to  cry  for  the  rage  that  he  felt.  To 
ease  himself,  therefore,  of  his  smarting  ache,  he  called  for 
his  tooth-picker,  and,  rubbing  towards  a  young  walnut-tree, 
where  they  lay  skulking,  unnestled  you  my  gentlemen  pil- 
grims. For  he  caught  one  by  the  legs,  another  by  the  scrip, 
another  by  the  pocket,  another  by  the  scarf,  another  by  the 
band  of  the  breeches;  and  the  poor  fellow  that  had  hurt 
him  with  the  bourbon,  him  he  hooked  to  him  by  [another 
part  of  his  clothes].  .  .  .  The  pilgrims,  thus  dislodged,  ran 
away. 

Rabelais  closes  his  story  with  jocose  irreverent 
application  of  Scripture, — a  manner  of  his  which 
gives  some  color  to  the  tradition  of  a  biblical  pun 
made  by  him  on  his  death-bed. 

The  closest  English  analogue  to  Rabelais  is  un- 
doubtedly Dean  Swift.  We  probably  never  should 
have  l^ad  "Gulliver's  Travels"  from  Swift,  if  we 
had  not  first  had  Gargantua  and  Pantagruel  from 
Rabelais.  Swift,  however,  differs  from  Rabelais  as 
well  as  resembles  him.  Whereas  Rabelais  is  simply 
monstrous  in  invention,  Swift  in  invention  submits 


88         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

himself  loyally  to  law.  Give  Swift  his  world  of 
Liliput  and  Brobdingnag  respectively,  and  all,  after 
that,  is  quite  natural  and  probable.  The  reductioft 
or  the  exaggeration  is  made  upon  a  mathematically 
calculated  scale.  For  such  verisimilitude  Rabelais 
cares  not  a  straw.  His  various  inventions  are 
recklessly  independent  one  of  another.  A  character- 
istic of  Swift  thus  is  scrupulous  conformity  to  whim- 
sical law.  Rabelais  is  remarkable  for  whimsical 
disregard  of  even  his  own  whirase^^s.  Voltaire  put 
the  matter  with  his  usual  felicity,  —  Swift  is  Rabelais 
in  his  senses. 

One  of  the  most  celebrated  —  justly  celebrated  — 
of  Rabelais's  imaginations  is  that  of  the  Abbey  of 
Th6l6me  [Thelema].  This  constitutes  a  kind  of 
Rabelaisian  Utopia.  It  was  proper  of  the  released 
monk  to  give  his  Utopian  dream  the  form  of  an 
abbe}',  but  an  abbey  in  which  the  opposite  should 
obtain  of  all  that  he  had  so  heartily  hated  in  his  own 
monastic  experience.  A  humorously  impossible 
place  and  state  was  the  Abbey  of  Th^l^me,  —  a  kind 
of  sportive  Brook  Farm  set  far  away  in  a  world 
unrealized.  How  those  Thelemites  enjoyed  life, 
to  be  sure  !  It  was  like  endless  plum  pudding  — > 
for  everybody  to  eat,  and  nobody  to  prepare  :  — 

All  their  life  was  spent  not  in  laws,  statutes,  or  rules, 
but  according  to  their  own  free  will  and  pleasure.  They 
rose  out  of  their  beds  when  they  thought  good;  they  did 
eat,  drink,  labor,  sleep,  when  they  had  a  mind  to  it,  and 
were  disposed  for  it.  None  did  awake  them,  none  did  offer 
to  constrain  them  to  eat,  drink,  nor  to  do  any  other  thing; 


Rabelais.  39 

for  so  had  Gargantua  established  it.  In  all  their  rule,  and 
strictest  tie  of  their  order,  there  was  but  this  one  clause  to 
be  observed,  — 

DO  WHAT  THOU  WILT. 

...  By  this  liberty  they  entered  into  a  very  laudable  emu- 
lation, to  do  all  of  them  what  they  saw  did  please  one.  If 
any  of  the  gallants  or  ladies  should  say,  Let  us  drink,  they 
would  all  drink.  If  any  one  of  them  said,  Let  us  play,  they 
all  played.  If  one  said.  Let  us  go  a  walking  into  the  fields, 
they  went  all.  .  .  .  There  was  neither  he  nor  she  amongst 
them,  but  could  read,  write,  sing,  play  upon  several  musical 
instruments,  speak  five  or  six  several  languages,  and  compose 
in  them  all  very  quaintly,  both  in  verse  and  prose.  Never 
were  seen  so  valiant  knights,  so  noble  and  worthy,  so  dex- 
trous and  skilful  both  on  foot  and  a  horseback,  more  brisk 
»nd  lively,  more  nimble  and  quick,  or  better  handling  all 
manner  of  weapons  than  were  there.  Never  were  seen 
ladies  so  proper  and  handsome,  so  miniard  and  dainty,  less 
forward,  or  more  ready  with  their  hand,  and  with  their 
needle,  in  every  honest  and  free  action  belonging  to  that  sex, 
than  were  there.  For  this  reason,  when  the  time  came,  that 
any  man  of  the  said  abbey,  either  at  the  request  of  his 
parents,  or  for  some  other  cause,  had  a  mind  to  go  out  of  it, 
he  carried  along  with  him  one  of  the  ladies,  namely  her  who 
had  before  that  accepted  him  as  her  lover,  and  they  were 
married  together. 

The  foregoing  is  one  of  the  most  purely  sweet 
imaginative  passages  in  Rabelais's  works.  The  rep- 
resentation, as  a  whole,  sheathes,  of  course,  a  keen 
satire  on  the  religious  houses.  Real  religion,  Rabe- 
lais nowhere  attacks. 

The  same  colossal  Gargantua  who  had  that  eating 
adventure  with  the  six  pilgrims,  is  made,  in  Rabelais's 
second  book,  to  write  his  youthful  son  Pantagruel  — 


40         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

also  a  giant,  but  destined  to  be,  when  mature,  a 
model  of  all  princely  virtues  —  a  letter  on  education, 
in  which  the  most  pious  paternal  exhortation  occurs. 
The  whole  letter  reads  like  some  learned  Puritan 
divine's  composition.  Here  are  a  few  specimen 
sentences : — 

Fail  not  most  carefully  to  peruse  the  books  of  the  Greek, 
Arabian,  and  Latin  physicians,  not  despising  the  Taliuud- 
ists  and  Cabalists;  and  by  frequent  anatomies  get  thee  the 
perfect  knowledge  of  that  other  world,  called  the  microcosm, 
which  is  man.  And  at  some  of  the  hours  of  the  day  apply 
thy  mind  to  the  study  of  the  Holy  Scriptures :  first,  in  Greek, 
the  New  Testament,  with  the  Epistles  of  the  Apostles ;  and 
then  the  Old  Testament  in  Hebrew.  In  brief,  let  me  see  thee 
an  abyss  and  bottomless  pit  of  knowledge.  .  .  . 

...  It  behoveth  thee  to  serve,  to  love,  to  fear  God,  and 
on  him  to  cast  all  thy  thoughts  and  all  thy  hope,  and,  by 
faith  formed  in  charity,  to  cleave  unto  him,  so  that  thou 
mayst  never  be  separated  from  him  by  thy  sins.  Suspect 
the  abuses  of  the  world.  Set  not  thy  heart  upon  vanity,  for 
this  life  is  transitory;  but  the  Word  of  the  Lord  endureth 
forever. 

"Friar  John"  is  a  mighty  man  of  valor,  who 
figures  equivocally  in  the  story  of  Gargantua  and 
Pantagruel.  The  Abbey  of  Th61^me  is  given  him  in 
reward  of  his  services.  Some  have  identified  this 
fighting  monk  with  Martin  Luther.  The  represen- 
tation is,  on  t)ie  whole,  so  conducted  as  to  leave  the 
reader's  sympathies  at  least  half  enlisted  in  favor  of 
the  fellow,  rough  and  roistering  as  he  is. 

Panurge  is  the  hero  of  the  romance  of  Pantagruel, 
—  almost  more  than  Pantagruel  himself.     It  would 


Rabelais.  41 

be  unpardonable  to  dismiss  Rabelais  without  first 
making  our  readers  know  Panurge  by,  at  least,  a  few 
traits  of  his  character  and  conduct.  Panurge  was 
a  shifty  but  unscrupulous  adventurer,  whom  Pan- 
tagruel,  pious  prince  as  he  was,  coming  upon  him  b}' 
chance,  took  and  kept  under  his  patronagec  Panurge 
was  an  arch-imp  of  mischief,  —  mischief  indulged  in 
the  form  of  obscene  and  malicious  practical  jokes. 
Rabelais  describes  his  accomplishments  in  a  long 
strain  of  discourse,  from  which  we  purge  our  selec- 
tion to  follow,  —  thereby  transforming  Panurge  into 
a  comparatively  proper  and  virtuous  person  :  — 

He  had  threescore  and  three  tricks  to  come  by  it 
[money]  at  his  need,  of  which  the  most  honorable  and  most 
ordinai-y  was  in  manner  of  thieving,  secret  purloining,  and 
filching,  for  lie  was  a  wicked,  lewd  rogue,  a  cozener,  drinker, 
roysterer,  rover,  and  a  very  dissolute  and  debauched  fellow, 
if  there  were  any  in  Paris;  otherwise,  and  in  all  matters  else, 
the  best  and  most  virtuous  man  in  the  world ;  and  he  was 
still  contriving  some  plot,  and  devising  mischief  against  the 
Serjeants  and  the  watch. 

At  one  time  he  assembled  three  or  four  especial  good 
hacksters  and  roaring  boys;  made  them  in  the  evening 
drink  like  Templars,  afterwards  led  them  till  they  came 
under  St.  Genevieve,  or  about  the  college  of  Navarre,  and, 
at  the  hour  that  the  watch  was  coming  up  that  way,  —  which 
he  knew  by  putting  his  sword  upon  the  pavement,  and  his 
ear  bjr  it,  and,  when  he  heard  his  sword  shake,  it  was  an 
infallible  sign  that  the  watch  was  near  at  that  instant,  — 
tlien  he  and  his  companions  took  a  tumbrel  or  garbage-cart, 
and  gave  it  the  brangle,  hurling  it  with  all  their  force  down 
the  hill,  and  then  ran  away  upon  the  other  side;  for  in  less 
than  two  days  he  knew  all  the  streets,  lanes,  and  turnings 
in  I'aris,  as  well  as  his  Deus  del. 
4 


42         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

At  another  time  he  laid,  in  some  fair  place  where  the 
said  watch  was  to  pass,  a  train  of  gunpowder,  and,  at  the 
very  instant  that  they  went  along,  set  fire  to  it,  and  then 
made  himself  sport  to  see  what  good  grace  they  had  in 
running  away,  thinking  that  St.  Anthony's  fire  had  caught 
them  by  the  legs.  ...  In  one  of  his  pockets  he  had  a  great 
many  little  horns  full  of  fleas  and  lice,  which  he  borrowed 
from  the  beggars  of  St.  Innocent,  and  cast  them,  with  small 
canes  or  quills  to  write  with,  into  the  necks  of  the  daintiest 
gentlewomen  that  he  could  find,  yea,  even  in  the  church; 
for  he  never  seated  himself  above  in"  the  choir,  but  always 
in  the  body  of  the  church  amongst  the  women,  both  at  mass, 
at  vespers,  and  at  sermon. 

Coleridge,  in  his  metaphjsical  way,  keen  at  the 
moment  on  the  scent  of  ilhistrations  for  the  phi- 
losophy of  Kant,  said,  "  Pantagruel  is  the  Reason  ; 
Panurge  the  Understanding."  Rabelais  himself,  in 
the  fourth  book  of  his  romance,  written  in  the  last 
years  of  his  life,  defines  the  spirit  of  the  work. 
This  fourth  book,  the  English  translator  says,  is 
"justly  thought  his  masterpiece."  The  same  au- 
thority adds  with  enthusiasm,  "  Being  wrote  with 
more  spirit,  salt,  and  flame  than  the  first  part." 
Jtiere,  then,  is  Rabelais's  own  expression,  sincere  or 
jocular,  as  you  choose  to  take  it,  for  what  consti- 
tutes the  essence  of  his  writing.  We  quote  from 
the  "  Prologue  "  :  — 

By  the  means  of  a  little  Pantagruellsm  (which,  you 
know,  is  a  certain  jollity  of  mind,  pickled  in  the  scorn  of 
fortune),  you  see  me  now  ["  at  near  seventy  years  of  age," 
his  translator  says],  hale  and  cheery,  as  sound  as  a  bell,  and 
reatly  to  drink,  If  you  wilL 


.  Rabelais.  48 

It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  mad,  rollicking 
humor,  sticking  at  nothing,  either  in  thought  or  in 
expression,  with  which  especially  this  last  book  of 
Rabelais's  work  is  written.  But  we  have  no  more 
space  for  quotation. 

Coleridge's  theory  of  interpretation  for  Rabelais's 
writings  is  hinted  in  his  "  Table  Talk,"  as  follows : 
"  After  any  particularly  deep  thrust,  .  .  .  Rabelais, 
as  if  to  break  the  blow,  and  to  appear  unconscious 
of  wliat  he  has  done,  writes  a  chapter  or  two  of 
pure  buffoonery." 

The  truth  seems  to  us  to  be,  that  Rabelais's  su- 
preme taste,  like  his  supreme  power,  laj'  in  the  line 
of  humorous  satire.  He  hated  monkery,  and  he 
satirized  the  system  as  openly  as  he  dared,  —  this, 
however,  not  so  much  in  the  love  of  truth  and  free- 
dom, as  in  pure  fondness  for  exercising  his  wit. 
That  he  was  more  than  willing  to  make  his  ribald 
drollery  the  fool's  mask  from  behind  which  he  might 
aim  safely  his  shafts  of  ridicule  at  what  he  despised 
and  hated,  is  indeed  probable.  But  in  this  is  sup- 
plied to  him  no  sufficient  excuse  for  his  obscene  and 
blasphemous  pleasantry.  Nor  yet  are  the  mannei"s 
of  the  age  an  excuse  sufficient.  Erasmus  belonged 
to  the  same  age,  and  he  disliked  the  monks  not  less. 
But  what  a  contrast,  in  point  of  decency,  between 
Rabelais  and  Erasmus ! 


44         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 


IV. 

MONTAIGNE. 
1533-1592. 

Montaigne  is  signally  the  author  of  one  book. 
His  "Essays"  are  the  whole  of  him.  He  wrote 
letters,  to  be  sure,  and  he  wrote  journals  of  travel 
in  quest  of  health  and  pleasure.  But  these  are 
chiefly  void  of  interest.  Montaigne  the  Essayist 
alone  is  emphatically  the  Montaigne  that  survives. 
"Montaigne  the  Essayist,"  —  that  has  become,  as 
it  were,  a  personal  name  in  literary  history. 

The  "Essay's"  are  one  hundred  and  seven  in 
number,  divided  into  three  books.  They  are  very 
unequal  in  length  ;  and  the}'  are  on  the  most  various 
topics,  —  topics  often  the  most  whimsical  in  charac- 
ter. We  giye  a  few  of  his  titles,  taking  them  as 
found  in  Cotton's  translation  :  — 

That  men  by  various  waj's  arrive  at  the  same  end; 
Whether  the  governor  of  a  place  ought  himself  to  go  out  to 
parley;  Of  liars;  Of  quick  or  slow  speech;  A  proceeding  of 
some  ambassadors;  Various  events  from  the  same  counsel; 
Of  cannibals;  That  we  laugh  and  cry  from  the  same  thing; 
Of  smells;  That  the  mind  hinders  itself;  Of  thumbs;  Of 
virtue;  Of  coaches;  Of  managing  the  will;  Of  cripples; 
Of  experience. 


Montaigne.  45 

Montaigne's  titles  cannot  be  trusted  to  indicate 
the  nature  of  the  essays  to  which  they  belong.  The 
author's  pen  will  not  be  bound.  It  runs  on  at  its 
own  pleasure.  Things  the  most  unexpected  are  in- 
cessantly turning  up  in  Montaigne, — things,  proba- 
bly, that  were  as  unexpected  to  the  writer  when  he 
was  writing,  as  they  will  be  to  the  reader  when  he 
is  reading.  The  writing,  on  whatever  topic,  in 
whatever  vein,  always  revolves  around  the  writer 
for  its  pivot.  Montaigne,  from  no  matter  what 
apparent  diversion,  may  constantly  be  depended 
upon  to-  bring  up  in  due  time  at  himself.  The  tether 
is  long  and  elastic,  but  it  is  tenacious,  and  it  is 
securely  tied  to  Montaigne.  This,  as  we  shall  pres- 
ently let  the  author  himself  make  plain,  is  no  acci- 
dent, of  which  Montaigne  was  unconscious.  It  is 
the  express  idea  on  which  the  "  Essays  "  were  writ- 
ten. Montaigne,  in  his  "  Essays,"  is  a  pure  and 
perfect  egotist,  naked,  and  not  ashamed.  Egotism 
is  Montaigne's  note,  his  differentia,  in  the  world  of 
literature.  Other  literary  men  have  been  egotists 
—  since.  But  Montaigne  may  be  called  the  first, 
and  he  is  the  greatest. 

Montaigne  was  a  Gascon,  and  Gasconisms  adul- 
terate the  purity  of  his  French.  But  his  style  —  a 
little  archaic  now,  and  never  finished  to  the  nail  — 
had  virtues  of  its  own  which  have  exercised  a  whole- 
some influence  on  classic  French  prose.  It  is  sim- 
ple, direct,  manly,  genuine.  It  is  fresh  and  racy  of 
the  writer.     It  is  flexible  to  every  turn,  it  is  sensitive 


46  Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

to  every  rise  or  fall,  of  the  thought.  It  is  a  stead- 
fast rebuke  to  raut  and  fustian.  It  quietly  laughs 
to  scorn  the  folly  of  that  style  which  writhes  in  an 
agony  of  expression,  with  neither  thought  nor  feeling 
present  to  be  expressed.  Montaigne's  "  Essajs  " 
have  been  a  great  and  a  beneficent  formative  force 
in  the  development  of  prose  style  in  French. 

For  substance,  Montaigne  is  rich  in  practical 
wisdom,  his  own  by  original  reflection,  or  by  dis- 
creet purvcyal.  He  had  read  much,  he  had  ob- 
served much,  he  had  experienced  much.  The  result 
of  all,  digested  in  brooding  thought,  he  put  into  his 
"P^ssays."  These  grew  as  he  grew.  He  got  him- 
self transferred  whole  into  them.  Out  of  them,  in 
turn,  the  world  has  been  busy  ever  since  dissolving 
Montaigne. 

Montaigne's  "Essays"  are,  as  we  have  said, 
himself.  Such  is  his  own  way  of  putting  the  fact. 
To  one  admiring  his  essays  to  him,  he  frankly  re- 
plied, "  You  will  like  me,  if  j^ou  like  ray  essays,  for 
they  are  mj'self."  The  originality,  the  creative 
character  and  force,  of  the  "Essays,"  lies  in  this 
autobiographical  quality  in  them.  Their  fascina- 
tion, too,  consists  in  the  self-revelation  they  contain. 
This  was,  first,  self-revelation  on  the  part  of  the 
writer ;  but  no  less  it  becomes,  in  each  case,  self- 
revelation  in  the  experience  of  the  reader.  For,  as 
face  answereth  to  face  in  the  glass,  so  doth  the 
heart  of  man  to  man,  —  from  race  to  race,  and  from 
generation   to   generation.      If   Montaigne,    in   his 


Montaigne.  47 

"  Essays,"  held  the  mirror  up  to  himself,  he,  in  the 
same  act,  held  up  the  mirror  to  you  and  to  me. 
The  image  that  we,  reading,  call  Montaigne,  is 
really  ourselves.  We  never  tire  of  gazing  on  it. 
We  are  all  of  us  Narcissuses.  This  is  why  Mon- 
taigne is  an  immortal  and  a  universal  writer. 

Here  is  Montaigne's  Preface  to  his  "  Essays;  " 
"  The  Author  to  the  Reader,"  it  is  entitled :  — 

Reader,  thou  hast  here  an  honest  book;  it  doth  at  the 
outset  forewarn  thee  that,  in  contriving  tlie  same,  I  have 
proposed  to  myself  no  other  tlian  a  domestic  and  private 
end:  I  have  had  no  consideration  at  all  either  to  thy  service 
or  to  my  glory.  My  powers  are  not  capable  of  any  such  de- 
sign. I  have  dedicated  it  to  the  particular  commodity  of 
my  kinsfolk  and  friends,  so  that,  having  lost  me  (which 
they  must  do  shortly),  they  may  therein  recover  some  traits 
of  my  conditions  and  humors,  and  by  that  means  preserve 
more  whole,  and  more  life-like,  the  knowledge  they  had  of 
me.  Had  my  intention  been  to  seek  the  world's  favor,  I 
should  surely  have  adorned  myself  with  borrowed  beauties. 
I  desire  therein  to  be  viewed  as  I  appear  in  mine  own  genu- 
ine, simple,  and  ordinary  manner,  without  study  and  artifice; 
for  it  is  myself  I  paint.  My  defects  are  therein  to  be  read 
to  the  life,  and  my  imperfections  and  my  natural  form,  so 
far  as  public  reverence  hath  permitted  me.  -If  I  had  lived 
among  those  nations  which  (they  say)  yet  dwell  under  the 
sweet  liberty  of  nature's  primitive  laws,  I  assure  thee  I 
would  most  willingly  have  painted  myself  quite  fully,  and 
quite  naked.  Thus,  reader,  myself  am  the  matter  of  my 
book.  There's  no  reason  thou  sheujdst  employ  thy  leisure 
about  so  frivolous  and  vain  a  subject.     Therefore,  farewell. 

From  Montaigne,  the  12th  of  June,  15S0. 

Michel  Eyquem  de  Montaigne,  our  author,  as  the 


48         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

foregoing  date  will  have  suggested,  derived  his  most 
familiar  name  from  tlie  place  at  which  he  was  born 
and  at  which  he  lived.  Readers  are  not  to  take  too 
literally  Montaigne's  notice  of  his  dispensing  with 
"borrowed  beauties."  He  was,  in  fact,  a  famous 
borrower.  He  himself  warns  his  readers  to  be  care- 
ful how  they  criticise  him ;  they  may  be  flouting 
unawares  Seneca,  Plutarch,  or  some  other,  equally 
redoubtable,  of  the  reverend  ancients.  Montaigne 
is  perhaps  as  signal  an  example  as  any  in  literature, 
of  tlie  man  of  genius  exercising  his  prescriptive 
right  to  help  himself  to  his  own  wherever  he  may 
happen  to  find  it.  But  Montaigne  has  in  turn  been 
freely  borrowed  from.  Bacon  borrowed  from  him, 
Shakspeare  borrowed  from  him,  Dryden,  Pope, 
Hume,  Burke,  Byron,  —  these,  with  many  more,  in 
England;  and,  in  France,  Pascal,  La  Rochefou- 
cauld, Voltaire,  Rousseau,  —  directly  or  indirectly, 
almost  every  writer  since  his  day.  No  moderft 
writer,  perhaps,  has  gone  in  solution  into  subse- 
quent literature  more  widely  than  Montaigne.  But 
no  writer  remains  moj-e  solidly  and  insolubly  entire. 
We  go  at-  once  to  chapter  twenty-five  of  the  first 
book  of  the  "Essays,"  entitled,  in  the  English 
translation,  "Of  the  education  of  children."  The 
translation  we  use  henceforth  throughout  is  the 
classic  one  of  Charles  Cotton,  in  a  text  of  it  edited 
by  Mr.  William  Carew  Hazlitt.  The  "preface," 
already  given.  Cotton  omitted  to  translate.  We 
have  allowed  Mr.  Hazlitt  to  supply  the  deficiency. 


Montaigne.  49 

Montaigne  addressee  his  educational  views  to  a 
countess.  Several  others  of  his  essays  are  similarly 
inscribed  to  women.  Mr.  Emerson's  excuse  of 
Montaigne  for  his  coarseness,  —  that  he  wrote  for  a 
generation  ni  which  women  were  not  expected  to  be 
readers,  —  is  thus  seen  to  be  curiously  impertinent 
to  the  actual  case  that  existed.  Of  a  far  worse 
fault  in  Montaigne  than  his  coarseness,  —  we  mean 
his  outright  immorality,  —  Mr.  Emerson  makes  no 
mention,  and  for  it,  therefore,  provides  no  excuse. 
We  shall  ourselves,  in  due  time,  deal  more  openly 
with  our  readers  on  this  point. 

It  was  for  a  "  bo}'  of  quality"  that  Montaigne 
aimed  to  adapt  his  suggestions  on  the  subject  of 
education.  In  this  happy  country  of  ours,  all  boys 
are  b#ys  of  qualit3' ;  and  we  shall  go  nowhere  amiss 
in  selecting  from  the  present  essay  :  — 

For  a  boy  of  quality,  then,  I  say,  I  would  also  have  his 
friends  solicitous  to  find  him  out  a  tutor  who  has  rather  a 
well-made  than  a  well-filled  head,  seeking,  indeed,  both  the 
one  and  the  other,  but  rather  of  the  two  to  prefer  manners 
and  judgment  to  mere  learning,  and  that  this  man  should 
exercise  lais  cliarge  after  a  new  method. 

'Tis  the  custom  of  pedagogues  to  be  eternally  thunder- 
ing in  their  pupil's  ears,  as  they  were  pouring  into  a  funnel, 
whilst  the  business  of  the  pupil  is  only  to  repeat  what  the 
others  have  said :  now,  I  would  have  a  tutor  to  correct  this 
error,  and  that,  at  the  very  first,  he  should,  according  to  the 
capacity  he  has  to  deal  with,  put  it  to  the  test,  permitting 
his  pupil  himself  to  taste  things,  and  of  himself  to  discern 
and  choose  them,  sometimes  opening  the  way  to  him,  and 
sometimes  leaving  him  to  open  it  for  himself;  that  is,  I 


50        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

would  not  have  him  alone  to  invent  and  speak,  but  that  he 
should  also  hear  his  pupil  speak  in  turn.  .  .  .  Let  him 
make  him  put  what  he  has  learned  into  a  hundred  several 
forms,  and  accommodate  it  to  so  many  several  subjects,  to 
see  if  he  yet  rightly  comprehends  it,  and  has  made  it  his 
own.  .  .  .  'Tis  a  sign  of  crudity  and  indigestion  to  disgorge 
what  we  eat  in  the  same  condition  it  was  swallowed:  the 
stomach  has  not  performed  its  office,  imless  it  have  altered 
the  form  and  condition  of  what  was  committed  to  it  to  con- 
coct. .  .  . 

Let  him  make  him  examine  and  thoroughly  sift  every 
thing  he  reads,  and  lodge  nothing  in  his  fancy  upon  simple 
authority  and  upon  trust.  Aristotle's  principles  will  then  be 
no  more  principles  to  him  than  those  of  Epicurus  and  the 
Stoics:  let  this  diversity  of  opinions  be  propounded  to,  and 
laid  before,  him;  he  will  himself  choose,  if  he  be  able;  if 
not,  he  will  remain  in  doubt. 

"  Che,  non  men  che  saper,  dubbiar  m'aggrata." 

Dante,  Inferno,  il.  93. 

["  That  doubting  pleases  me,  not  less  than  knowing." 

Longfellow's  Translation.] 

For,  if  he  embrace  the  opinions  of  Xenophon  and  Plato,  by 
his  own  reason,  they  will  no  more  be  theirs,  but  become  his 
own.  Who  follows  another,  follows  nothing,  finds  nothing, 
nay,  is  inquisitive  after  nothing.  "Non  sumus  sub  rege; 
sibi  quisque  se  vindicet."  ["  We  are  under  no  king;  let  each 
look  to  himself." — Seneca,  Ep.  33.]  Let  him,  at  least, 
know  that  he  knows.  It  will  be  necessary  that  he  imbibe 
their  knowledge,  not  that  he  be  corrupted  with  their  pre- 
cepts; and  no  matter  if  he  forget  where  he  had  his  learning, 
provided  he  know  how  to  apply  it  to  his  own  use.  Truth 
and  reason  are  common  to  every  one,  and  are  no  more  his 
who  spake  them  first,  than  his  who  speaks  them  after;  'tis 
no  more  according  to  Plato,  than  according  to  me,  since 
both  he  and  I  equally  see  and  understand  them.     Bees  cull 


Montaigne.  61 

their  several  sweets  from  this  flower  and  that  hlossom,  here 
and  there  where  they  find  them ;  but  themselves  afterward 
make  the  honey,  which  is  all  and  purely  their  own,  and  no 
more  thyme  and  marjoram:  so  the  several  fragments  he 
borrows  from  others  he  will  transform  and  shuffle  together, 
to  compile  a  work  that  shall  be  absolutely  his  own;  that  is  to 
say,  his  judgment:  his  instruction,  labor,  and  study  tend 
to  nothing  else  but  to  form  that.  .  .  .  Conversation  with 
men  is  of  very  great  use,  an  J  travel  into  foreign  countries; 
...  to  be  able  chiefly  to  give  an  account  of  the  humors, 
manners,  customs,  and  laws  of  those  nations  where  he  has 
been,  and  that  we  may  whet  and  sharpen  our  wits  by  rub- 
bing them  against  those  of  others.  .  .  . 

In  this  conversing  with  men,  I  mean  also,  and  princi- 
pally, those  who  live  only  in  the  records  of  history:  he 
shall,  by  reading  those  books,  converse  with  the  great  and 
heroic  souls  of  the  best  ages. 

It  is  difficult  to  find  a  stopping-place  in  discourse 
so  wise  and  so  sweet.  We  come  upon  sentences 
like  Plato  for  height  and  for  beauty.  An  example  : 
"  The  most  manifest  sign  of  wisdom  is  a  continual 
cheerfulness  ;  her  state  is  like  that  of  things  in  the 
regions  above  the  moon,  always  clear  and  serene." 
But  the  genius  of  Montaigne  does  not  often  soar, 
though  even  one  little  flight  like  that  shows  that  it 
has  wings.  Montaigne's  garnishes  of  quotation 
from  foreign  tongues  are  often  a  cold-blooded  de- 
vice of  afterthought  with  him.  His  first  edition 
was  without  them,  in  many  places  where  subse- 
quently they  appear.  Readers  familiar  with  Emer- 
son will  be  reminded  of  him  in  perusing  Montaigne. 
Emerson  himself  said,  "  It  seemed  to  me  [in  read- 


52         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

ing  the  "Essajs  "  of  Montaigne]  as  if  I  had  myself 
written  the  book  in  some  former  life,  so  sincerely  it 
spoke  to  my  thoughts  and  experience."  The  rich 
old  English  of  Cotton's  translation  had  evidently  a 
strong  influence  on  Emerson,  to  mould  his  own  style 
of  expression.  Emerson's  trick  of  writing  "  'tis," 
was  apparently  caught  from  Cotton.  The  following 
sentence,  from  the  present  essay  of  Montaigne, 
might  very  well  have  served  Mr.  Emerson  for  his 
own  rule  of  writing:  "Let  it  go  before,  or  come 
after,  a  good  sentence,  or  a  thing  well  said,  is 
always  in  season ;  if  it  neither  suit  well  with  what 
went  before,  nor  has  much  coherence  with  what  fol- 
lows after,  it  is  good  in  itself."  Montaigne,  at  any 
rate,  wrote  his  "Essays"  on  that  easy  principle. 
The  logic  of  them  is  the  logic  of  mere  chance  asso- 
ciation in  thought.  But,  with  Montaigne,  —  what- 
ever is  true  of  Emerson,  —  the  association  at  least 
is  not  occult ;  and  it  is  such  as  pleases  the  reader, 
not  less  than  it  pleased  the  writer.  So  this  Gascon 
gentleman  of  the  olden  time  never  tires  us,  and 
never  loses  us  out  of  his  hand.  We  go  with  him 
cheerfully  where  he  so  blithely  leads. 

Montaigne  tells  us  how  he  was  himself  framed 
under  his  father.  The  elder  Montaigne,  too,  had  his 
ideas  on  education,  — the  subject  which  his  son,  in 
this  essay,  so  instructively  treats.  The  essayist  leads 
up  to  his  autobiographical  episode  by  an  allusion  to 
the  value  of  the  classical  languages,  and  to  the  ques- 
tion of  method  in  studying  them.     He  says :  — 


Montaigne.  53 

In  my  infancy,  and  before  I  began  to  speak,  he  [my  father] 
committed  me  to  the  care  of  a  German,  .  .  .  totally  ignorant 
of  om-  language,  but  very  fluent,  and  a  great  critic,  in  Latin. 
This  man,  whom  he  had  fetched  out  of  his  own  country,  and 
whom  he  entertained  with  a  very  great  salary,  for  this  only 
end,  had  me  continually  with  him :  to  him  there  were  also 
joined  two  others,  of  inferior  learning,  to  attend  me,  and  to 
relieve  him,  who  all  of  them  spoke  to  me  in  no  other  lan- 
guage but  Latin.  As  to  the  rest  of  his  family,  it  was  an 
inviolable  rule,  that  neither  himself  nor  my  mother,  man 
nor  maid,  should  speak  any  thing  in  my  company,  but  such 
Latin  words  as  every  one  had  learned  only  to  gabble  with 
me.  It  is  not  to  be  imagined  how  great  an  advantage  this 
proved  to  the  whole  family:  my  father  and  my  mother  by 
this  means  learned  Latin  enough  to  understand  it  perfectly 
well,  and  to  speak  it  to  such  a  degree  as  was  sufficient  for 
any  necessary  use,  as  also  those  of  the  servants  did,  who 
were  most  frequently  with  me.  In  short,  we  Latined  it  at 
such  a  rate,  that  it  overflowed  to  all  the  neighboring  villages, 
where  there  yet  remain,  that  have  established  themselves 
by  custom,  several  Latin  appellations  of  artisans  and  their 
tools.  As  for  what  concerns  myself,  I  was  above  six  years 
of  age  before  I  understood  either  French  or  Perigordin 
["  Perigordin "  is  Montaigne's  name  for  the  dialect  of  his 
province,  Perigord  (Gascony)],  any  more  than  Arabic;  and, 
without  art,  book,  grammar,  or  precept,  whipping,  or  the 
expense  of  a  tear,  I  had,  by  that  time,  learned  to  speak  as 
pure  Latin  as  my  master  himself,  for  I  had  no  means  of 
mixing  it  up  with  any  other. 

We  are  now  to  see  how,  helped  by  his  wealth,  the 
father  was  able  to  gratify  a  pleasant  whimsey  of  his 
own  in  the  nurture  of  his  boy.  Highly  aesthetic  was 
the  matin  reveille  that  broke  the  slumbers  of  this 
hopeful  young  heir  of  Montaigne  :  — 


54         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Some  being  of  opinion  that  it  troubles  and  disturbs  the 
brains  of  children  suddenly  to  wake  them  in  the  morning, 
and  to  snatch  them  violently  and  over-hastily  from  sleep, 
wherein  they  are  much  more  profoundly  involved  than  we, 
he  [the  father]  caused  me  to  be  wakened  by  the  sound  of 
some  musical  instrument,  and  was  never  unprovided  of  a 
musician  for  that  purpose.  .  .  .  The  good  man,  being  ex- 
tremely timorous  of  any  way  failing  in  a  thing  he  had  so 
wholly  set  his  heart  upon,  suffered  himself  at  last  to  be 
overruled  by  the  common  opinions:  ...  he  sent  me,  at  six 
years  of  age,  to  the  College  of  Guienne,  at  that  time  the 
best  and  most  flourishing  in  France. 

In  short,  as  in  the  case  of  Mr.  TuUiver,  the  world 
was  "too  many"  for  Eyquem  p^re;  and,  in  the 
education  of  his  son,  the  stout  Gascon,  liaving 
started  out  well  as  dissenter,  fell  into  dull  con- 
formity at  last. 

We  ought  to  give  some  idea  of  the  odd  instances, 
classic  and  other,  with  which  Montaigne  plentifully 
bestrews  his  pages.  He  is  writing  of  the  "  Force 
of  Imagination."     He  says  :  — 

A  woman,  fancying  she  had  swallowed  a  pin  in  a  piece 
of  bread,  cried  and  lamented  as  though  she  had  an  intoler- 
able pain  in  her  throat,  where  she  thought  she  felt  it  stick; 
but  an  ingenious  fellow  that  was  brought  to  her,  seeing  no 
outward  tumor  nor  alteration,  supposing  it  to  be  only  a  con- 
ceit taken  at  some  crust  of  bread  that  had  hurt  her  as  it 
went  down,  caused  her  to  vomit,  and,  unseen,  threw  a 
crooked  pin  into  the  basin,  which  the  woman  no  sooner 
saw,  but,  believing  she  had  cast  it  up,  she  presently  found 
herself  eased  of  her  pain.  .  .  . 

Such  as  are  addicted  to  the  pleasures  of  the  field,  have. 


Montaigne.  55 

I  make  no  question,  heard  the  story  of  the  falconer,  who, 
having  earnestly  fixed  his  eyes  upon  a  kite  in  the  air,  laid  a 
wager  that  he  wouiJ  bring  her  down  with  the  sole  power  of 
his  sight,  and  did  so,  as  it  was  said;  for  the  tales  I  borrow, 
I  charge  upon  the  consciences  of  those  from  whom  I  have 
them. 

We  italicize  the  last  foregoing  words,  to  make 
readers  see  that  Montaigne  is  not  to  be  read  for  the 
truth  of  his  instances.  He  uses  what  comes  to 
hand.  He  takes  no  trouble  to  verify.  "The  dis- 
courses are  my  own,"  he  says;  but  even  this,  as 
we  have  hinted,  must  not  be  pressed  too  hard  in 
interpretation.  Whether  a  given  reflection  of  Mon- 
taigne's is  strictly  his  own,  in  the  sense  of  not 
having  been  first  another's,  who  gave  it  to  him,  is 
not  to  be  determined  except  upon  very  wide  read- 
ing, very  well  remembered,  in  all  the  books  that 
Montaigne  could  have  got  under  his  eye.  That  was 
full  fairly  his  own,  he  thought,  which  he  had  made 
his  own  by  intelligent  appropriation.  And  this, 
perhaps,  expresses  in  general  the  sound  law  of 
property  in  the  realm  of  mind.  At  any  rate,  Mon- 
taigne will  wear  no  yoke  of  fast  obligation.  He 
will  write  as  pleases  him.  Above  all  things  else,  he 
likes  his  freedom. 

Here  is  one  of  those  sagacious  historical  scep- 
ticisms, in  which  Montaigne  was  so  fond  of  poising 
his  mind  between  opposite  views.  It  occurs  in  his 
essay  entitled,  "Of  the  Uncertainty  of  our  Judg- 
ments." 


56         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Amongst  other  oversights  Porapey  is  charged  withal  at 
the  battle  of  Pharsalia,  he  is  condemned  for  making  his 
army  stand  still  to  receive  the  enemy's  charge,  "  by  reason 
that"  (I  shall  here  steal  Plutarch's  own  words,  which  are 
better  than  mine)  "he  by  so  doing  deprived  himself  of  the 
violent  impression  the  motion  of  running  adds  to  the  first 
shock  of  arms,  and  hindered  that  clashing  of  the  combatants 
against  one  another,  which  is  wont  to  give  them  greater  im- 
petuosity and  fury,  especially  when  they  come  to  rush  in 
with  their  utmost  vigor,  their  courages  increasing  by  the 
shouts  and  the  career;  'tis  to  render  the  soldiers'  ardor,  as  a 
man  may  say,  more  reserved  and  cold."  This  is  what  he 
says.  But,  if  Caesar  had  come  by  the  worse,  why  might  it 
not  as  well  have  been  urged  by  another,  that,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  strongest  and  most  steady  posture  of  fighting  is 
that  Avherein  a  man  stands  planted  firm,  without  motion; 
and  that  they  who  are  steady  upon  the  march,  closing  up, 
and  reserving  their  force  within  themselves  for  the  push  of 
the  business,  have  a  great  advantage  against  those  who  are 
disordered,  and  who  have  already  spent  half  their  breath  in 
running  on  precipitately  to  the  charge?  Besides  that,  an 
array  is  a  body  made  up  of  so  many  individual  members,  it 
is  impossible  for  it  to  move  in  this  fury  with  so  exact  a 
motion  as  not  to  break  the  order  of  battle,  and  that  the  best 
of  them  are  not  engaged  before  their  fellows  can  come  oa 
to  help  them. 

The  sententiousness  of  Montaigne  may  be  illus- 
trated by  transferring  here  a  page  of  brief  excerpts 
from  the  "  Essays,"  collected  by  Mr.  Bayle  St.  John 
in  his  biography  of  the  author.  This  apothegmatic 
or  proverbial  quality  in  Montaigne  had  a  very  impor- 
tant sequel  of  fruitful  influence  on  subsequent  French 
writers,  as  chapters  to  follow  in  this  vol«me  will 
abundantly  show.     In  reading  the   sentences   sub- 


Montaigne.  57 

joined,  you  will  have  the  sensation  of  coming  sud- 
denly upon  a  treasure-trove  of  coined  proverbial 
wisdom :  — 

Our  minds  are  never  at  home,  but  ever  btyoud  home. 

I  will  take  care,  if  possible,  that  my  death  shall  say  noth- 
ing that  my  life  bas  not  said. 

Life  in  itself  is  neither  good  nor  bad:  it  is  the  place  of 
what  is  good  or  bad. 

Knowledge  should  not  be  stuck  on  to  the  mind,  but  incor- 
porated in  it. 

Irresolution  seems  to  me  the  most  common  and  apparent 
vice  of  our  natm-e. 

Age  wrinkles  the  mind  more  than  the  face. 

Habit  is  a  second  nature. 

Hunger  cures  love. 

It  is  easier  to  get  money  than  to  keep  it. 

Anger  has  often  been  the  vehicle  of  courage. 

It  is  more  difficult  to  command  than  to  obey. 

A  liar  should  have  a  good  memory. 

Ambition  is  the  daughter  of  presumption. 

To  serve  a  prince,  you  must  be  discreet  and  a  liar. 

We  learn  to  live  when  life  has  passed. 

The  mind  is  ill  at  ease  when  its  companion  has  the  colic. 

We  are  jU  richer  than  we  think,  but  wc  are  brought  up 
to  go  a-begging. 

The  greatest  masterpiece  of  man  is  ...  to  be  bom  at 
the  right  time. 
5 


58         Classic  J^'rench  Coarse  in  Engliish. 

We  append  a  saying  of  Montaigne's  not  found 
in  Mr.  St.  John's  collection  :  — 

There  is  no  so  good  man  who  so  squares  all  his  thoughts 
and  actions  to  the  laws,  that  he  is  not  faulty  enough  to 
deserve  hanging  ten  times  in  his  life. 

Montaigne  was  too  intensely  an  egotist,  in  his 
character  as  man  no  less  than  in  his  character  as 
writer,  to  have  many  personal  relations  that  exhibit 
him  in  aspects  engaging  to  our  love.  But  one 
friendship  of  his  is  memorable,  —  is  even  historic. 
The  name  of  La  Boetie  is  forever  associated  with 
the  name  of  Montaigne.  La  Boetie  is  remarkable 
for  being,  as  we  suppose,  absolutely  the  first  voice 
raised  in  France  against  the  idea  of  monarchy.  His 
little  treatise  "  Coutr'  Un "  (literally,  "Against 
One"),  or  "Voluntary  Servitude,"  is  by  many 
esteemed  among  the  most  important  literary  pro- 
ductions of  modern  times.  Others,  again,  Mr. 
George  Saintsbury  for  example,  consider  it  an 
absurdly  overrated  book.  For  our  own  part, 
we  are  inclined  to  give  it  conspicuous  place  in 
the  history  of  free  thought  in  France.  La  Boetie 
died  young;  and  his  "  Contr'  Un  "  was  published 
posthumously,  —  first  by  the  Protestants,  after 
the  terrible  day  of  St.  Bartholomew.  Our  readers 
may  judge  for  themselves  whether  a  pamphlet  in 
which  such  passages  as  the  following  could  occur, 
must  not  have  had  an  historic  effect  upon  the  inflam- 
mable sentiment  of   the  French  people.     We  take 


Montaigne.  69 

Mr.  Bayle  St.  John's  translation,  bracketing  a  hint 
or  two  of  correction  suggested  by  comparison  of  the 
original  French.  The  treatise  of  La  Boetie  is  some- 
times now  printed  with  Montaigne's  ''  Essays,"  iu 
French  editjpns  of  our  author's  works :  La  Boeti? 
says : — 

You  sow  your  fruits  [crops]  that  he  [the  king]  may  rav- 
age them;  you  furnish  and  fill  your  houses  that  he  may  have 
something  to  steal;  you  bring  up  your  daughters  that  he  may 
slake  his  luxury;  you  bring  up  your  sons  that  he  may  take 
them  to  be  butchered  in  his  wars,  to  be  the  ministers  of  his 
avarice,  the  executors  of  his  vengeance;  you  disfigure  your 
forms  by  labor  [your  own  selves  you  inure  to  toil]  that  he 
may  cocker  himself  in  delight,  and  wallow  in  nasty  and 
disgusting  pleasure. 

Montaigne  seems  really  to  have  loved  this  friend 
of  his,  whom  lie  reckoned  the  greatest  man  in  France. 
His  account  of  La  Boetie's  death  is  boldly,  and  not 
presumptuously,  paralleled  b}'  Mr.  St.  John  with  the 
"  Phaedou  "  of  Plato.  Noble  writing,  it  certainly  is, 
though  its  stateliness  is  a  shade  too  self-conscious., 
perhaps. 

"We  have  thus  far  presented  Montaigne  in  words 
of  his  own  such  as  may  fairly  be  supposed  likely  to 
prepossess  the  reader  in  his  favor.  We  could  mul- 
tiply our  extracts  indefinitely  in  a  like  imexception- 
able  vein  of  writing.  But  to  do  so,  and  to  stop 
with  these,  would  misrepresent  Montaigne.  Mon- 
taigne is  very  far  from  being  an  innocent  writer. 
His  moral   tone  generally  is  low,  and  often  it  is 


60        Classic  French  Course  in  English, 

execrable.  He  is  coarse,  but  coarseness  is  not  the 
worst  of  him.  Indeed,  he  is  cleanliness  itself  com- 
pared with  Rabelais.  But  Rabelais  is  morality  itself 
compared  with  Montaigne.  Montaigne  is  corrupt 
and  corrupting.  This  feature  of  his  #vritings,  we 
are  necessarily  forbidden  to  illustrate.  In  an  essay 
written  in  his  old  age,— -which  we  will  not  even 
name,  its  general  tenor  is  so  evil,  —  Montaigne  holds 
the  following  language  :  — 

I  gently  turn  aside,  and  avert  my  eyes  from  the  stormy 
and  cloudy  sky  I  have  before  me,  which,  thanks  be  to  God, 
I  regard  without  fear,  but  not  without  meditation  and 
study,  and  amuse  myself  in  the  remembrance  of  my  better 
years : — 

"  Animus  quod  perdidit,  optat, 
Atque  in  prseterita  se  totus  imagine  versat." 

Pktbonius,  c.  128. 

["The  mind  desires  what  it  has  lost,  and  in  fancy  flings 
itself  wholly  into  the  past."] 

Let  childhood  look  forward,  and  age  backward:  is  not 
this  the  signification  of  Janus'  double  face  ?  Let  years 
haul  me  along  if  they  will,  but  it  shall  be  backward ;  as  long 
as  my  eyes  can  discern  the  pleasant  season  expired,  I  shall 
now  and  then  turn  them  that  way ;  though  it  escape  from 
my  blood  and  veins,  I  shall  not,  however,  root  the  image  of 
it  out  of  my  memory:  — 

"  Hoc  est 
Vivere  bis,  vita  posse  priore  frui." 

Martial,  x.  23,  7. 

["  'Tis  to  live  twice  to  be  able  to  enjoy  former  life  again."] 
Harmlessly,  even  engagingly,  pensive  seems  the 


Montaigne.  61 

foregoing  strain  of  sentiment.  "Who  could  suppose 
it  a  prelude  to  detailed  reminiscence  on  the  author's 
part  of  sensual  pleasures  —  the  basest  —  enjoyed  in 
the  past?  The  venerable  voluptuary  keeps  himself 
in  countenance  for  his  lascivious  vein,  by  writing  as 
follows :  — 

I  have  enjoined  myself  to  dare  to  say  all  that  I  dare  to 
do;  even  thoughts  that  are  not  to  be  published,  displease 
me;  the  worst  of  my  actions  and  qualities  do  not  appear  to 
me  so  evil,  as  I  find  it  evil  and  base  not  to  dare  to  own 
them.  .  .  . 

...  I  am  greedy  of  making  myself  known,  and  I  care 
not  to  how  many,  provided  it  be  truly.  .  .  .  Many  things 
that  I  would  not  say  to  a  particular  individual,  I  say  to  the 
people;  and,  as  to  my  most  secret  thoughts,  send  my  most 
intimate  friends  to  my  book.  .  .  .  For  my  part,  if  any  one 
should  recommend  me  as  a  good  pilot,  as  being  very  modest, 
or  very  chaste,  I  should  owe  him  no  thanks  [because  the 
recommendation  would  be  false]. 

We  must  leave  it  —  as,  however,  Montaigne  him- 
self is  far  enough  from  leaving  it  —  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  readers  to  conjecture  what  "  pleasures  "  they 
are,  of  which  this  worn-out  debauchee  (nearing 
death,  and  thanking  God  that  he  nears  it  "  with- 
out fear ' ' )  speaks  in  the  following  sentimental 
strain  :  — 

In  farewells,  we  oftener  than  not  heat  our  affections 
towards  the  things  we  take  leave  of:  I  take  my  last  leavfe  of 
the  pleasures  of  this  world ;  these  are  our  last  embraces. 

Mr.    Emerson,    in    his    *'  Representative    Men," 


62         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

makes  Montaigne  stand  for  The  Sceptic.  Sceptic 
Montaigne  was.  He  questioned,  he  considered,  he 
doubted.  He  stood  poised  in  equilibrium,  in  indif- 
ference, between  contrary  opinions.  He  saw  rea- 
sons on  this  side,  but  he  saw  reasons  also  on  that, 
and  he  did  not  clear  his  mind.  "  Que  sgai-je?'' 
was  his  motto  ("What  know!?"),  a  question  as 
of  hopeless  ignorance, — uay,  as  of  ignorance  also 
void  of  desire  to  know.  His  life  was  one  long  in- 
terrogation, a  balancing  of  opposites,  to  the  end. 

Such,  speculatively,  was  Montaigne.  Such,  too, 
speculatively,  was  Pascal.  The  difference,  however, 
was  greater  than  the  likeness,  between  these  two 
minds.  Pascal,  doubting,  gave  the  world  of  spir- 
itual things  the  benefit  of  his  doubt.  Montaigne, 
on  the  other  hand,  gave  the  benefit  of  his  doubt  to 
the  world  of  sense.  He  was  a  sensualist,  he  was  a 
glutton,  he  was  a  lecher.  He,  for  his  portion,  chose 
the  good  things  of  this  life.  His  body  he  used  to 
get  him  pleasures  of  the  body.  In  pleasures  of  the 
body  he  sunk  and  drowned  his  conscience,  —  if  he 
ever  had  a  conscience.  But  his  intelligence  sur- 
vived. He  became,  at  last,  —  if  he  was  not  such 
from  the  first,  —  almost  pure  sense,  without  soul. 

Yet  we  have  no  doubt  Montaigne  was  an  agree- 
able gentleman.  We  think  we  should  have  got  on 
well  with  him  as  a  neighbor  of  ours.  He  was  a 
tolerably  decent  father,  provided  the  child  were 
grown  old  enough  to  be  company  for  him.  His 
own  lawful  children,  while  infants,  had  to  go  out 


Montaigne.  63 

of  the  house  for  their  nursiug ;  so  it  not  unnaturally 
happened  that  all  but  one  died  in  their  infancy. 
Five  of  such  is  the  number  that  you  can  count  in 
his  own  journalistic  entries  of  family  births  and 
deaths.  But,  speaking  as  "moral  philosopher,"  in 
his  "Essays,"  he  says,  carelessly,  that  he  had  lost 
"two  or  three"  "without  repining."  This,  per- 
haps, is  affectation.     But  what  affectation  ! 

Montaigne  was  well-to-do ;  and  he  ranked  as  a 
gentleman,  if  not  as  a  great  nobleman.  He  lived 
in  a  castle,  bequeathed  to  liini,  and  by  him  be- 
queathed,—  a  castle  still  standing,  and  full  of  per- 
sonal association  with  its  most  famous  owner.  He 
occupied  a  room  in  the  tower,  fitted  up  as  a  library. 
Over  the  door  of  this  room  may  still,  we  believe,  be 
read  Montaigne's  motto,  "  Que  s<;ai-je?"  Votaries 
of  Montaigne  perform  their  pious  pilgrimages  to 
this  shrine  of  their  idolatry,  year  after  Near,  cen- 
tury after  century. 

For,  remember,  it  is  now  three  centuries  since 
Montaigne  wrote.  He  was  before  Bacon  and 
Shakspeare.  He  was  contemporary  with  Charles 
IX.,  and  with  Henry  of  Navarre.  But  date  has 
little  to  do  with  such  a  writer  as  Montaigne.  His 
qualit}-  is  sempiternal.  He  overlies  the  ages,  as 
the  long  hulk  of  "  The  Great  Eastern  "  overlay  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  stretching  from  summit  to  sum- 
mit. Not  that,  in  the  form  of  his  literary  work,  he 
was  altogether  independent  of  time  and  of  circum- 
stance.    Not  that  he  was  uninfluenced  by  his  hia-? 


64        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

toric  place,  in  the  essential  spirit  of  his  work.  But, 
more  than  often  happens,  Montaigne  may  fairly  be 
judged  out  of  himself  alone.  His  message  he 
raiglit,  indeed,  have  delivered  differently ;  but  it 
would  have  been  substantially  the  same  message  if 
he  had  been  differently'  placed  in  the  world,  and  in 
history.  We  need  hardly,  therefore,  add  any  thing 
about  Montaigne's  outward  life.  His  true  life  is  in 
his  book. 

Montaigne  the  Essayist  is  the  consummate,  the 
ideal,  expression,  practically  incapable  of  improve- 
ment, of  the  spirit  aud  wisdom  of  the  world.  This 
characterization,  we  think,  fairly  and  sufficiently 
sums  up  the  good  and  the  bad  of  Montaigne.  We 
might  seem  to  describe  no  verj'^  mischievous  thing. 
But  to  have  the  spirit  and  wisdom  of  this  world 
expressed,  to  have  it  expressed  as  in  a  last  authori- 
tative form,  a  form  to  commend  it,  to  flatter  it,  to 
justify  it,  to  make  it  seem  sufficient,  to  erect  it  into 
a  kind  of  gospel,  —  that  means  much.  It  means 
hardly  less  than  to  provide  the  world  with  a  new 
Bible,  —  a  Bible  of  the  world's  own,  a  Bible  that 
shall  approve  itself  as  better  than  the  Bible  of  tho 
Old  and  New  Testaments.  Montaigne's  "Essay's" 
constitute,  in  effect,  such  a  book.  The  man  of  the 
world  may,  —  and,  to  say  truth,  does, — in  this  vol- 
ume, find  all  his  needed  texts.  Here  is  viaticum  — 
daily  manna  —  for  him,  to  last  the  year  round,  and 
to  last  year  after  year ;  an  inexhaustible  breviary 
for  the  church  of  this  world !     It  is  of  the  gravest 


Montaigne.  65 

historical  significance  that  Rabelais  and  Montaigne, 
but  especially  Montaigne,  should,  to  such  an  extent, 
for  now  three  full  centuries,  have  been  furnishing 
tlie  daily  intellectual  food  of  Frenchmen. 

Pascal,  in  an  interview  with  M.  de  Saci  (care- 
fully reported  b}'  the  latter) ,  in  which  the  conversa- 
tion was  on  the  subject  of  Montaigne  and  Epictetus 
contrasted,  —  these  two  authors  Pascal  acknowl- 
edged to  be  the  ones  most  constantly  in  his  hand, 
—  said  gently  of  Montaigne,  "Montaigne  is  abso- 
lutely pernicious  to  those  who  have  any  inclination 
toward  irreligion,  or  toward  vicious  indulgences." 
"We,  for  our  part,  are  prepared,  speaking  more 
broadly  than  Pascal,  to  saj'  that,  to  a  somewhat 
numerous  class  of  naturally  dominant  minds,  Mon- 
taigne's "  Essa3s,"  in  spite  of  all  that  there  is  good 
in  them,  — nay,  greatly  because  of  so  much  good  in 
them,  —  are,  by  their  subtl}'  insidious  persuasion  to 
evil,  upon  the  whole  quite  the  most  powerfully 
pernicious  book  known  to  us  in  literature,  either 
ancient  or  modern. 


C6         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 


V. 


LA    ROCHEFOUCAULD:    1613-1680    (La   Bruyere: 
1646  (?)-1696  :    Vauvenargues :    1715-1747). 

In  La  Rochefoucauld  we  meet  another  eminent 
example  of  the  author  of  one  book.  "Letters," 
"Memoirs,"  and  "  Maxims  "  indeed  name  produc- 
tions in  three  kinds,  productions  all  of  them  notable, 
and  all  still  extant,  from  La  Rochefoucauld's  pen. 
But  the  "  Maxims  "  are  so  much  more  famous  tlian 
either  the  "Letters  "  or  the  "  Memoirs,"  that  tlieir 
author  may  be  said  to  be  known  only  by  those.  If 
it  were  not  for  the  "  Maxims,"  the  "  Letters  "  and 
the  "Memoirs"  would  probably  now  be  forgotten. 
We  here  may  dismiss  these  from  our  minds,  and  con- 
centrate our  attention  exclusively  upon  the  "  Max- 
ims." Voltaire  said,  "The  'Memoirs'  of  the  Due 
de  La  Rochefoucauld  are  read,  but  we  know  his 
'  Maxims  '  by  heart. ' ' 

La  Rochefoucauld's  "  Maxims  "  are  detached  sen- 
tences of  reflection  and  wisdom  ou  human  chaiacter 
and  conduct.  They  are  about  seven  hundred  in 
number,  but  they  are  all  comprised  in  a  very  small 
volume  ;  for  they  generally  are  each  onlj*  two  or 
three  lines  in  length,  and  almost  never  does  a  single 
maxim  occupy  more  than  the  half  of  a  moderate- 
sized  page.     The  "  Maxims,"  detached,  us  we  have 


La  Rochefoucauld.  67 

described  them,  have  no  very  marked  logical  se- 
quence in  the  order  in  which  they  stand.  They  all, 
however,  have  a  profound  mutual  relation.  An 
unvarying  monotone  of  sentiment,  in  fact,  runs 
through  them.  They  are  so  man}'  different  expres- 
sions, answering  to  so  many  different  observations 
taken  at  different  angles,  of  one  and  the  same  per- 
sisting estimate  of  human  nature.  '  Self-love  is 
the  mainspring  and  motive  of  every  thing  we  d^,  or 
say,  or  feel,  or  think  : '  that  is  the  total  result  of 
the  "  Maxims  "  of  La  Rochefoucauld. 

The  writer's  qualifications  for  treating  his  theme 
wei'e  unsurpassed.  He  had  himself  the  right  char- 
acter, moral  and  intellectual ;  his  scheme  of  conduct 
in  life  corresponded  ;  he  wrote  in  the  right  language, 
French ;  and  he  was  rightly  situated  in  time,  in  place, 
and  in  circumstance.  He  needed  but  to  look  closely 
within  him  and  without  him,  — which  he  was  gifted 
with  eyes  to  do,  — and  then  report  what  he  saw,  in 
the  language  to  which  he  was  born.  This  he  did, 
and  his  "  Maxnns  "  are  the  fruit.  His  method  was 
largely  the  sceptical  method  of  Montaigne.  His 
result,  too,  was  much  the  same  result  as  his  master's. 
But  the  pupi!  surpassed  the  master  in  the  quality  of 
his  work.  There  is  a  fineness,  an  exquisiteuess,  in 
the  literary  form  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  which  Mon- 
taigne might  indeed  have  disdained  to  seek,  but 
which  he  could  never,  even  with  seeking,  have 
attained.  Each  maxim  of  La  Rochefoucauld  is  a 
''  gem  of  purest  ray  serene,"  wrought  to  the   last 


68         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

degree  of  perfection  in  form  with  infinite  artistic 
pains.  Purity,  precision,  clearness,  densitj',  point, 
arG  perfectly  reconciled  in  La  Rochefoucauld's  style 
with  ease,  grace,  and  brilliancy  of  expression.  The 
influence  of  such  literary  finish,  well  bestowed  on 
thought  worthy  to  receive  it,  has  been  incalculably 
potent  in  raising  the  standard  of  French  production 
in  prose.  It  was  Voltaire's  testimony,  "One  of 
the  works  which  has  most  contributed  to  form  the 
national  taste,  and  give  it  a  spirit  of  accuracy  and 
precision,  was  the  little  collection  of  '  Maxims '  by 
Fran<;ois  Due  de  La  Rochefoucauld." 

There  is  a  high-bred  air  about  La  Rochefoucauld 
the  writer,  which  well  accords  with  the  rank  and 
character  of  the  man  La  Rochefoucauld.  He  was 
of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  France.  His 
instincts  were  all  aristocratic.  His  manners  and  his 
morals  wei'e  those  of  his  class.  Brave,  spirited,  a 
touch  of  chivalry  in  him,  honorable  and  amiable  as 
the  world  reckons  of  its  own.  La  Rochefoucauld  ran 
a  career  consistent  throughout  with  his  own  master- 
principle,  self-love.  He  had  a  wife  whose  conjugal 
fidelity  her  husband  seems  to  have  thought  a  suffi- 
cient supply  in  that  virtue  for  both  himself  and  her. 
He  behaved  himself  accordingly.  His  illicit  rela- 
tions with  other  women  were  notorious.  But  they 
unhappily  did  not  make  La  Rochefoucauld  in  that 
respect  at  all  peculiar  among  the  distinguished 
men  of  his  time.  His  brilliant  female  friends  col- 
laborated with  him  in  working  out  his  "  Maxims." 


La  Rochefoucauld.  69 

These  were  the  labor  of  years.  They  were  pub- 
lished in  successive  editions,  during  the  lifetime  of 
the  author  ;  and  some  final  maxims  were  added  from 
his  manuscripts  after  his  death. 

Using,  for  the  purpose,  a  ver}'  recent  translation, 
that  of  A.  S.  Bolton  (which,  in  one  or  two  places, 
•we  venture  to  conform  more  exactly  to  the  sense  of 
the  original) ,  we  give  almost  at  hazard  a  few  speci- 
mens of  these  celebrated  apothegms.  We  adopt 
the  numbering  given  in  the  best  Paris  edition  of  the 
"  Maxims  :  "  — 

No.  11.  The  passions  often  beget  their  contraries.  Ava- 
rice sometimes  produces  prodigality,  and  prodigality  avarice: 
we  are  often  firm  from  weakness,  and  daring  from  timidity. 

No.  13.  Our  self-love  bears  more  impatiently  the  con- 
demnation of  our  tastes  than  of  our  opinions. 

How  much  just  detraction  from  all  mere  natural 
human  greatness  is  contained  in  the  following  pene- 
trative maxim !  — 

No.  18.  Moderation  is  a  fear  of  falling  into  the  envy  and 
contempt  which  those  deserve  who  are  nitoxicated  with  their 
good  fortune;  it  is  a  vain  parade  of  the  strength  of  oiu*  mind ; 
and,  in  short,  the  moderation  of  men  in  their  highest  eleva- 
tion is  a  desire  to  appear  greater  than  their  fortune. 

"What  effectively  quiet  satire  in  these  few  words  !  — 

No.  19.  We  have  strength  enough  to  bear  the  ills  of 
others. 

This  man  had  seen  the  end  of  all  perfection  in  the 
apparently  great  of  this  world.     He  could  not  bear 


70         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

that  such  should  flaunt  a  false  plume  before  their 
fellows :  — 

No.  20.  The  steadfastness  of  sages  is  only  the  art  of 
locking  up  their  uneasiness  in  tlieir  hearts. 

Of  course,  had  it  lain  in  the  author's  chosen  line 
to  do  so,  he  might,  with  as  much  apparent  truth, ♦ 
have  pointed  out,  that  to  lock  up  uneasiness  in  the 
heart  requires  steadfastness  no  less  —  nay,  more  — 
than  not  to  feel  uneasiness.  ^ 

The  inflation  of  "  philosophy"  vaunting  itself  is 
thus  softly  eased  of  its  painful  distention  :  — 

No.  22.  Philosophy  triumphs  easily  over  troubles  passed 
and  troubles  to  come,  but  present  troubles  triumph  over 
it. 

When  Jesus  once  rebuked  the  fellow-disciples  of 
James  and  John  for  blaming  those  brethren  as  self- 
seekers,  he  acted  on  the  same  profound  principle 
with  that  disclosed  in  the  following  maxim  :  — 

No.  .34.  If  we  had  no  pride,  we  should  not  complain  of 
that  of  others. 

How  impossible  it  is  for  that  Proteus,  self-love,  to 
elude  the  presence  of  mind,  the  inexorable  e^e,  the 
fast  hand,  of  this  incredulous  Frenchman  :  — 

No.  39.  Interest  [self-love]  speaks  all  sorts  of  languages, 
and  plays  all  sorts  of  parts,  even  that  of  disinterestedness. 

No.  49.  We  are  never  so  happy,  or  so  unhappy,  as  we 
imagine. 

No.  78.  The  love  of  justice  is,  in  most  men,  only  the  fear 
of  suffering  injustice. 


Xa  Rochefoucauld.  71 

What  a  subtly  unsoldering  distrust  the  following 
maxim  introduces  into  the  sentiment  of  mutual 
friendship  !  — 

No.  83.  What  men  have  called  friendship,  is  only  a 
partnership,  a  mutual  accommodation  of  interests,  and  an 
exchange  of  good  offices:  it  is,  in  short,  only  a  traffic,  in 
which  self-love  always  proposes  to  gain  something. 

No.  89o  Every  one  complains  of  his  memory,  and  no  one 
complains  of  his  judgment. 

How  striking,  from  its  artful  suppression  of  strik- 
inguess,  is  the  first  following,  and  what  a  wide, 
easy  sweep  of  well-bred  satire  it  contains  !  — 

No.  93.  Old  men  like  to  give  good  advice,  to  console  them- 
selves for  being  no  longer  able  to  give  bad  examples. 

No.  119.  We  are  so  much  accustomed  to  disguise  our- 
selves to  others,  that,  at  last,  we  disguise  ourselves  to 
ourselves. 

No.  127.  The  true  way  to  be  deceived,  is  to  think  one's 
self  sharper  than  others. 

The  plain-spoken  proverb,  "  A  man  that  is  his 
own  lawyer,  has  a  fool  for  his  client,"  finds  a  more 
polished  expression  in  the  following:  — 

No.  132.  It  is  easier  to  be  wise  for  others,  than  to  be  so 
for  one's  self. 

How  pitilessly  this  inquisitor  pursues  his  prej'', 
the  human  soul,  into  all  its  useless  hiding-places !  — 

No.  138.  We  would  rather  speak  ill  of  ourselves,  than  not 
talk  of  ourselves. 


72         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

The  following  maxim,  longer  and  less  felici- 
tously phrased  than  is  usual  with  La  Rochefou- 
cauld, recalls  that  bitter  definition  of  the  bore, — 
"  One  who  insists  on  talking  about  himself  all  the 
time  that  you  are  wishing  to  talk  about  j'our- 
self:"  — 

No.  139.  One  of  the  causes  why  we  find  so  few  people 
who  appear  reasonable  and  agreeable  in  conversation,  is, 
that  there  is  scarcely  any  one  who  does  not  think  more  of 
what  he  wishes  to  say,  than  of  replying  exactly  to  M'liat  is 
said  to  him.  The  cleverest  and  the  most  compliant  think  it 
enough  to  sliow  an  attentive  air;  while  we  see  in  their  eyes 
and  in  their  mind  a  wandering  from  what  is  said  to  them, 
and  a  hurry  to  return  to  what  they  wish  to  say,  instead  of 
considering  tliat  it  is  a  bad  way  to  please  or  to  persuade 
others,  to  try  so  hard  to  please  one's  self,  and  that  to  listen 
well  is  one  of  the  greatest  accomplishments  we  can  have  in 
conversation. 

If  we  are  indignant  at  the  maxims  following,  it  is 
probably  rather  because  they  are  partly  true  than 
because  they  are  wholly  false  :  — 

No.  144.  We  are  not  fond  of  praising,  and,  without  inter- 
est, we  never  praise  any  one.  Praise  is  a  cunning  flattery, 
hidden  and  delicate,  which,  in  different  ways,  pleases  him 
who  gives  and  him  who  receives  it.  The  one  takes  it  as  a 
reward  for  his  merit :  the  other  gives  it  to  show  his  equity 
and  his  discernment. 

No.  146,  We  praise  generally  only  to  be  praised. 

No.  147.  Few  are  wise  enough  to  prefer  wholesome  blame 
to  treacherous  praise. 

No.  149.  Disclaiming  praise  is  a  wish  to  be  praised  a 
second  time. 


La  Rochefoucauld.  73 

No.  152.  If  we  did  not  flatter  ourselves,  the  flattery  of 
others  could  not  hurt  us.    . 

No.  184.  We  acknowledge  our  faults  in  order  to  atone, 
by  our  sincerity,  for  the  harm  they  do  us  in  the  minds  of 
others. 

No.  199.  The  desire  to  appear  able  often  prevents  oui 
becoming  so. 

No.  201.  Whoever  thinks  he  can  do  without  the  wo^ld, 
deceives  himself  much;  but  whoever  thinks  the  world  can- 
not do  without  him,  deceives  himself  much  more. 

With  the  following,  contrast  Ruskin's  noble  para- 
dox, that  the  soldier's  business,  rightly  conceived, 
is  self-sacrifice  ;  his  ideal  purpose  being,  not  to  kill, 
but  to  be  killed  :  — 

No.  214.  Valor,  in  private  soldiers,  is  a  perilous  calling, 
which  they  have  taken  to  in  order  to  gain  their  living. 

Here  is,  perhaps,  the  most  current  of  all  La 
Rochefoucauld's  maxims :  — 

No.  218.  Hypocrisy  is  a  homage  which  vice  renders  to 
virtue. 

Of  the  foregoing  maxim,  it  may  justly  be  said, 
that  its  truth  and  point  depend  upon  the  assump- 
tion, implicit,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  virtue, 
—  an  assumption  which  the  whole  tenor  of  the 
'*  Maxims,"  in  general,  contradicts. 

How  incisive  the  following  !  — 

No.  226.  Too  great  eagerness  to  requite  an  obligation  is 
a  kind  of  ingratitude. 

No.  298.  The  gratitude  of  most  men  is  only  a  secret  desire 
to  receive  great-er  favors. 
G 


74         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

•  No.  304.  We  often  forgive  those  who  bore  us,  but  we 
cannot  forgive  those  whom  we  bore. 

No.  313.  Why  should  we  have  memory  enough  to  retain 
even  the  smallest  particulars  of  what  has  happened  to  us, 
and  yet  not  have  enough  to  remember  how  often  we  have 
told  them  to  the  same  individual  ? 

The  first  following  maxim  satirizes  both  princes 
and  courtiers.  It  might  be  entitled,  "  How  to  in- 
sult a  prince,  and  not  suffer  for  your  temerity  "  :  — 

No.  320.  To  praise  princes  for  virtues  they  have  not,  is 
to  insult  them  with  impunity. 

No.  347.  We  find  few  sensible  people,  except  those  who 
are  of  our  way  of  thinking. 

No.  409.  We  should  often  be  ashamed  of  our  best  actions, 
if  the  world  saw  the  motives  which  cause  them. 

No.  424.  We  boast  of  faults  the  reverse  of  those  we  have: 
when  we  are  weak,  we  boast  of  being  stubborn. 

Here,  at  length,  is  a  maxim  that  does  not  depress, 
—  that  animates  }OU  :  — 

No.  432.  To  praise  noble  actions  heartily,  is  in  some  sort 
to  take  part  in  them. 

The  following  is  much  less  exhilarating :  — 

No.  454.  There  are  few  instances  in  which  we  should 
make  a  bad  bargain,  by  giving  up  the  good  that  is  said  of  us, 
on  condition  that  nothing  bad  be  said. 

This,  also :  — 

No.  458.  Our  enemies  come  nearer  to  the  truth,  in  the 
opinions  they  form  of  us,  than  we  do  ourselves. 

Here  is  a  celebrated  maxim,  vainly  "  suppressed  " 
by  the  author,  after  first  publication :  — 


La  Rochefoucauld.  75 

No.  583-  In  the  adversity  of  our  best  friends,  we  always 
find  something  which  does  not  displease  us." 

Before  La  Rochefoucauld,  Montaigne  had  said, 
*'Eveu  in  the  midst  of  compassion,  we  feel  within  us 
an  unaccountable  bitter-sweet  titillation  of  ill-natured 
pleasure  in  seeing  another  suffer;"  and  Burke, 
after  both,  wrote  (in  his  "  Sublime  and  Beautiful ") 
with  a  heavier  hand,  "  I  am  convinced  that  we  have 
a  degree  of  delight,  and  that  no  small  one,  in  the 
real  misfortunes  and  pains  of  others." 

La  Rochefoucauld  is  not  fairly  cynical,  more  than 
is  Montaigne.  But,  as  a  man,  he  wins  upon  you 
less.  His  maxims  are  like  hard  and  sharp  crystals, 
precipitated  from  the  worldly  wisdom  blandly  solute 
and  dilate  in  Montaigne. 

The  wise  of  this  world  reject  the  dogma  of  human 
depravity,  as  taught  in  the  Bible.  They  willingly 
accept  it,  —  nay,  accept  it  complacently,  hugging 
themselves  for  their  own  penetration, — as  taught 
in  the  "  Maxims  "  of  La  Rochefoucauld. 

Jean  de  La  Bruy^re  is  personally  almost  as  little 
known  as  if  he  were  an  ancient  of  the  Greek  or 
Roman  world,  surviving,  like  Juvenal,  only  in  his 
literary  production.  Bossuet  got  him  employed  to 
teach  history  to  a  great  duke,  who  became  his 
patron,  and  settled  a  life-long  annuity  upon  him. 
He  published  his  one  book,  the  "  Characters,"  in 
1687,  was  made  member  of  the  French  Academy  in 


76         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

1693,   and    died   in    1696.      That,  in   short,  is    La 
Bruy^re's  biograph}'. 

His  book  is  universally  considered  one  of  the  most 
finislied  products  of  the  human  mind.  It  is  not  a 
great  work,  —  it  lacks  the  unity  and  the  majesty  of 
design  necessary  for  that.  It  consists  simply  of  de- 
tached thoughts  and  observations  on  a  variety  of 
subjects.  It  shows  the  author  to  have  been  a  man 
of  deep  and  wise  reflection,  but  especially  a  con- 
summate master  of  style.  The  book  is  one  to  read 
in,  rather  than  to  read.  It  is  full  of  food  to  thought. 
The  very  beginning  exhibits  a  self-consciousness  on 
the  writer's  part  very  different  from  that  spontaneous 
simplicity  in  which  truly  great  books  origiuate.  La 
Bru3-6re  begins  :  — 

Every  thing  has  been  said ;  and  one  comes  too  late,  after 
more  than  seven  thousand  years  that  there  have  been  men, 
and  men  who  have  thought. 

La  Bruy^re  has  something  to  say,  and  that  at 
length  unusual  for  him,  of  pulpit  eloquence.  We 
select  a  few  specimen  sentences :  — 

Christian  eloquence  has  become  a  spectacle.  That  gos- 
pel sadness,  which  is  its  soul,  is  no  longer  to  be  observed  in 
it;  its  place  is  supplied  by  advantages  of  facial  expression, 
by  inflexions  of  the  voice,  by  regularity  of  gesticulation,  by 
choice  of  words,  and  by  long  categories.  The  sacred  word 
is  no  longer  listened  to  seriously;  it  is  a  kind  of  amusement, 
one  among  many;  it  is  a  game  in  which  there  is  rivalry,  and 
in  which  there  are  those  who  lay  wagers. 

Profane  eloquence  has  been  transferred,  so  to  speak,  from 


La  Bruyere.  11 

the  bar,  .  .  .  where  it  is  no  longer  employed,  to  the  pulpit, 
where  it  ought  not  to  be  found. 

Matches  of  eloquence  are  made  at  the  very  foot  of  the 
altar,  and  in  the  presence  of  the  mysteries.  He  who  listens 
sits  in  judgment  on  him  who  preaches,  to  condemn  or  to 
applaud,  and  is  no  more  converted  by  the  discourse  which 
he  praises  than  by  that  which  he  pronounces  against.  The 
orator  pleases  some,  displeases  others,  and  has  an  under- 
standing with  all  in  one  thing,  —  that  as  he  does  not  seek 
to  render  them  better,  so  they  do  not  think  of  becoming 
better. 

The  almost  cynical  acerbity  of  the  preceding  is 
ostensibly  relieved  of  an  obvious  application  to 
certain  illustrious  contemporary  examples  among 
preachers  by  the  following  open  allusion  to  Bossuet 
and  Bourdaloue :  — 

The  Bishop  of  Meaux  [Bossuet]  and  Father  Bourdaloue 
make  me  think  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero.  Both  of  them, 
masters  of  pulpit  eloquence,  have  had  the  fortune  of  great 
models;  the  one  has  made  bad  critics,  the  other,  bad 
imitators. 

Here  is  a  happy  instance  of  La  Bruy^re's  success- 
ful pains  in  redeeming  a  commonplace  sentiment  by 
means  of  a  striking  form  of  expression  ;  the  writer 
is  disapproving  the  use  of  oaths  in  support  of  one's 
testimony  :  — 

An  honest  man  who  says,  Yes,  or  No,  deserves  to  be 
believed ;  his  character  swears  for  him. 

Highly  satiric  in  his  quiet  way,  La  Bruj'^re  knew 
how  to  be.     Witness  the  following  thrust  at  a  con- 


78         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

temporai-y  author,  not  named  by  the  satirist,  biit,  no 
aoubt,  recognized  by  the  public  of  the  time  :  — 

He  maintains  that  the  ancients,  however  unequal  and 
negligent  they  may  be,  have  fine  traits;  he  points  tliese  out; 
and  tlaey  are  so  fine  that  they  uxake  his  criticism  readable. 

How  painstakingly,  how  self-consciously.  La 
Bruy^re  did  his  literary  work,  is  evidenced  by  the 
following  :  — 

A  good  author,  and  one  who  writes  with  care,  often 
has  the  experience  of  finding  that  the  expression  which  he 
was  a  long  time  in  search  of  without  reaching  it,  and 
which  at  length  he  has  found,  is  that  which  was  the  most 
simple,  the  most  natural,  and  that  which,  as  it  would  seem, 
should  have  presented  itself  at  first,  and  without  effort. 

We  feel  that  the  quality  of  La  Bruy^re  is  such  as 
to  fit  him  for  the  admiration  and  enjoyment  of  but  a 
comparatively  small  class  of  readers.  He  was  some- 
what ovfcr-exquisite.  His  art  at  times  became  arti-, 
fice  —  infinite  labor  of  style  to  make  commonplace 
thought  seem  valuable  by  dint  of  perfect  expression. 
"We  dismiss  La  Bruydre  with  a  single  additional 
extract, — his  celebrated  parallel  between  Corneille 
and  Racine  :  — 

^  Corneille  subjects  us  to  his  characters  and  to  his  ideajs; 
Racine  accommodates  himself  to  ours.  The  one  paints  men 
as  they  ought  to  be;  the  other  paints  them  as  they  are. 
There  is  more  in  the  former  of  what  one  admires,  and 
of  what  one  ought  even  to  imitate;  there  is  more  in  llie  , 
latter  of  what  one  observes  in  others,  or  of  what  one  expe- 
riences in  one's  self.     The  one  inspires,  astonishes,  masters, 


La  Bruyere.  79 

instructs;  the  other  pleases,  moves,  touches,  penetrates. 
Whatever  there  is  most  beautiful,  most  noble,  most  imperial, 
in  the  reason  is  made  use  of  by  the  former;  by  the  latter 
whatever  is  most  seductive  and  most  delicate  in  passion. 
You  find  in  the  former,  maxims,  rules,  and  precepts;  in  the 
latter,  taste  and  sentiment.  You  are  more  absorbed  in  the 
plays  of  Corneille;  you  are  more  shaken  and  more  softened 
in  those  of  Racine.  Corneille  is  more  moral ;  Racine,  more 
natural.  The  one  appears  to  make  Sophocles  his  model ;  the 
other  owes  more  to  Euripides. 


Less  than  half  a  century  after  La  Rochefoucauld 
and  La  Bruyere  had  shown  tfie  way,  Vauvenargues 
followed  in  a  similar  style  of  authorship,  promising 
almost  to  rival  the  fame  of  his  two  predecessors. 
This  writer,  during  his  brief  life  (he  died  at  thirty- 
two),  produced  one  not  inconsiderable  literary  work 
more  integral  and  regular  in  form,  entitled,  "  Intro- 
duction to  the  Knowledge  of  the  Human  Mind"; 
but  it  is  his  disconnected  thoughts  and  observations 
chiefl\'  that  continue  to  preserve  his  name. 

Luc  de  Clapiers,  Marquis  de  Vauvenargues,  though 
nobly  born,  was  poor.  His  health  was  frail.  He 
did  not  receive  a  good  education  in  his  youth.  In- 
deed, he  was  still  in  his  youth  when  he  went  to  tlie 
wars.  His  culture  always  remained  narrow.  He 
did  not  know  Greek  and  Latin,  when  to  know  Greek 
and  Latin  was,  as  it  .were,  the  whole  of  scholarship. 
To  crown  his  accidental  disqualifications  for  liter- 
ary work,  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  small-pox,  which 
left  him  wrecked  in   body.     This  occurred  almost 


80  Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

immediately  after  he  abandoned  a  military  career 
wliicb  liad  been  fruitful  to  liim  of  liardsliip,  but  not 
of  promotion.  In  spite  of  all  that  was  thus  against 
him,  Vauvenargues,  in  those  years,  few  and  evil, 
that  were  his,  thought  finelj'  and  justly  enough  to 
earn  for  himself  a  lasting  place  in  the  literary  history 
of  his  nation.  lie  was  in  the  eighteenth  century  of 
France,  without  being  of  it.  You  have  to  separate 
him  in  thought  from  the  infidels  and  the  "philoso- 
phers" of  his  time.  He  belongs  in  spirit  to  an 
earlier  age.  His  moral  and  intellectual  kindred  was 
with  such  as  Pascal,  far  more  than  with  such  as 
Voltaire.  Vauvenargues  is,  however,  a  writer  for 
the  few,  instead  of  for  the  many.  His  fame  is  high, 
but  it  is  not  wide.  Historically,  he  forms  a  step- 
ping-stone of  transition  to  a  somewhat  similar  nine- 
teenth-century name,  that  of  Joubert.  A  very  few 
sentences  of  his  will  suffice  to  indicate  to  our  readers 
the  quality  of  Vauvenargues.  Self-evidently,  the 
following  antithesis  drawn  by  him  between  Corneille 
and  Racine  is  subtly  and  ingeniously  thought,  as 
well  as  very  happil}'  expressed — this,  whatever 
may  be  considered  to  be  its  aptness  in  point  of 
literar}'^  appreciation :  — 

Comeille's  heroes  often  say  great  things  without  Inspiring 
them;  Racine's  inspire  them  without  saying  them. 

Here  is  a  good  saying  :  — 

It  is  a  great  sign  of  mediocrity  always  to  be  moderate  in 
praising. 


La  Fontaine.  81 

There  is  worldly  wisdom  also  here :  — 

He  who  knows  how  to  turn  his  prodigahties  to  good 
wcount,  practises  a  large  and  noble  economy. 

Virgil's  "They  are  able,  because  they  seam  to 
themselves  to  be  able,"  is  recalled  by  this :  — 

The  consciousness  of  our  strength  makes  our  strength 
greater. 

So  much  for  Vauvenargues. 


VI. 

LA  FONTAINE. 
1621-1695. 


La  Fontaine  enjoys  a  unique  fame.  He  has  abso- 
lutel}'  "  no  fellow  in  the  firmament"  of  literature. 
He  is  the  only  fabulist,  of  a.x\y  age  or  any  nation, 
that,  on  the  score  simply  of  his  fables,  is  admitted 
to  be  poet  as  well  as  fabulist.  There  is  perhaps  no 
other  literary  name  whatever  among  the  French,  by 
long  proof  more  secure,  than  is  La  Fontaine's,  of 
universal  and  of  immortal  renown.  Such  a  fame  is, 
of  course,  not  the  most  resplendent  in  the  world  ;  but 
to  have  been  the  first,  and  to  remain  thus  far  the 
only,  writer  of  fables  enjoying  recognition  as  true 
poetry,  —  this  surely  is  an  achievement  entitling  La 


82          Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Fontaine  to  monumental  mention  in  any  sketch,  how- 
ever summary,  of  French  literature. 

Jean  de  La  Fontaine  was  humbly  born,  at  Chateau- 
Thierry  in  Champagne.  His  early  education  was 
sadly  neglected.  At  twenty  years  of  age  he  was 
still  phenomenally  ignorant.  About  this  time,  being 
now  better  situated,  he  developed  a  taste  for  the 
classics  and  for  poetry.  With  La  Fontaine  the  man, 
*t  is  the  sadly  familiar  French  story  of  debauched 
manners  in  life  and  in  literary'  production.  We 
cannot  acquit  him,  but  we  are  to  condemn  him  onl}' 
in  common  with  the  most  of  his  age  and  of  his  na- 
tion. As  the  world  goes.  La  Fontaine  was  a  "good 
fellow,"  never  lacking  friends.  These  were  held  fast 
in  loyalty  to  the  poet,  not  so  much  by  any  ster- 
ling worth  of  character  felt  in  him,  as  by  an  ex- 
haustless,  easy-going  good-nature,  that,  despite  his 
social  insipidity,  made  La  Fontaine  the  most  accept- 
able of  every-day  companions.  It  would  be  easy  to 
repeat  many  stories  illustrative  of  this  personal  qual- 
ity in  La  Fontaine,  while  to  tell  a  single  story  illus- 
trative of  any  lofty  trait  in  his  character  would  be 
perhaps  impossible.  Still,  La  Fontaine  seemed  not 
ungrateful  for  the  benefits  he  received  from  others  ; 
and  gratitude,  no  commonplace  virtue,  let  us  accord- 
ingly reckon  to  the  credit  of  a  man  in  general  so 
slenderly  equipped  with  positive  claims  to  admiring 
personal  regard.  The  mirror  of  bonhomie  (easy- 
hearted  good-fellowship),  he  always  was.  Indeed, 
that  significant,  almost  untranslatable,  French  word 


La  Fontaine.  83 

might  have  been  coined  to  fit  La  F'ontaine's  case. 
On  his  amiable  side  —  a  full  hL^mispher.?  or  more  of 
the  man  —  it  sums  him  up  completely.  Twent}"  years 
long,  this  mirror  of  honhumie  was  domiciliated, 
like  a  pet  animal,  under  the  hospitable  roof  of  the 
celebrated  Madame  de  la  .Sabli(^re.  There  was  truth 
as  well  as  humor  implied  in  what  she  said  one  day : 
"  I  have  sent  away  all  my  domestics  ;  I  have  kept 
only  my  dog,  my  cat,  and  La  Fontaine.' ' 

But  La  Fontaine  had  that  in  him  which  kept  the 
friendship  of  serious  men.  Moli^re,  a  grave,  even 
melancholy  spirit,  however  gay  in  his  comedies ; 
Boileau  and  Racine,  decorous  both  of  them,  at  least 
in  mannei*s,  —  constituted,  together  with  La  Fontaine, 
a  kind  of  private  '•  Academ}-,"  existing  on  a  diminu- 
tive scale,  which  was  not  without  its  important  influ- 
ence on  French  letters.  La  Fontaine  seems  to  have 
been  a  sort  of  Goldsmith  in  this  club  of  wits,  the 
butt  of  many  pleasantries  from  his  colleagues,  called 
out  by  his  habit  of  absent-mindedness.  St.  Augus- 
tine was  one  night  the  subject  of  an  elaborate  eulogy, 
which  La  Fontaine  lost  the  benefit  of,  through  a 
reverie  of  his  own  indulged  meantime  on  a  quite  dif- 
ferent character.  Catching,  however,  at  the  name, 
La  Fontaine,  as  he  came  to  himself  for  a  moment, 
betrayed  the  secret  of  his  absent  thoughts  by  asking, 
''Do  you  think  St.  Augustine  had  as  much  wit  as 
Rabelais?" — "Take  care.  Monsieur  La  Fontaine: 
you  .have  put  one  of  your  stockings  on  wrong  side 
out," — he  had  actually  done  so, — was  the  only 


84         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

answer  vouchsafed  to  his  question.  The  speaker  in 
this  case  was  a  doctor  of  the  Sorbonne  (brother  to 
Boileau),  present  as  guest.  The  story  is  told  of 
La  Fontaine,  that  egged  on  to  groundless  jealousy 
of  his  wife,  —  a  wife  whom  he  never  really  loved,  and 
whom  he  soon  would  finally  abandon,  — he  challenged 
a  military  friend  of  his  to  combat  w  ith  swords.  The 
friend  was  amazed,  and,  amazed,  reluctantly  fought 
with  La  Fontaine,  whom  he  easily  [)ut  at  his  mercy. 
"  Now,  what  is  this  for?  "  he  demanded.  "  The  pub- 
lic says  you  visit  my  house  for  my  wife's  sake,  not 
for  mine,"  said  La  Fontaine.  ''Then  I  never  will 
come  again."  "Far  from  it,"  responds  La  Fon- 
taine, seizing  his  friend's  hand.  "  I  have  satisfied 
the  public.  Now  you  must  come  to  my  house  every 
day,  or  I  will  fight  you  again."  The  two  went  back 
in  company,  and  breakfasted  together  in  mutual  good 
humor. 

A  trait  or  two  more,  and  there  will  have  been 
enough  of  the  man  La  Fontaine.  It  is  said  that 
when,  on  the  death  of  Madame  de  la  Sabli^re,  La 
Fontaine  was  homeless,  he  was  met  on  the  street  by 
a  friend,  who  exclaimed,  "  I  was  looking  for  you  ; 
come  to  my  house,  and  live  with  me!"  "I  was 
on  the  way  there,"  La  Fontaine  characteristically 
replied.  At  seventy,  La  Fontaine  went  through  a 
process  of  "  conversion,"  so  called,  in  which  he  pro.- 
fessed  repentance  of  his  sins.  On  the  genuineness 
of  this  inward  experience  of  La  Fontaine,  it  is  not 
for  a  fellow-creature  of  his,  especially  at  this  dis- 


La  Fontaine.  85 

tance  of  time,  to  pronounce.  When  he  died,  at 
seventy-three,  F6nelon  could  say  of  him  (in  Latin), 
'  •  La  Fontaine  is  no  more !  He  is  no  more ;  and 
with  him  have  gone  the  playful  jokes,  the  merry 
laugh,  the  artless  graces,  and  the  sweet  Muses  !  " 

La  Fontaine's  earliest  works  were  Contes,  so 
styled  ;  that  is,  stories,  tales,  or  romances.  These 
are  in  character  such  that  the  subsequent  happy 
change  in  manners,  if  not  in  morals,  has  made  them 
unreadable,  —  for  their  indecency.  "VVe  need  con- 
cern ourselves  only  with  the  Fables,  for  it  is  on 
these  that  La  Fontaine's  fame  securely  rests.  The 
basis  of  story  in  them  was  not  generally  original  with 
La  Fontaine.  He  took  whatever  fittest  came  to  his 
hand.  "With  much  modesty,  he  attributed  all  to 
-^sop  and  Phaedrus.  But  invention  of  his  own  is 
not  altogether  wanting  to  his  books  of  fables.  Still, 
it  is  chieflv  the  consummate  artful  artlessness  of  the 
form  that  constitutes  the  individual  merit  of  La 
P'ontaine's  productions.  With  something,  too,  of 
tlie  air  of  real  poetry,  he  has  undoubtedly  invested 
his  verse. 

We  give,  first,  the  brief  fable  which  is  said  to 
have  been  the  prime  favorite  of  the  author  himself. 
It  is  the  fable  of  "The  Oak  and  the  Reed."  Of  this 
fable,  French  critics  have  not  scrupled  to  speak  in 
terms  of  almost  the  very  highest  praise.  Chamfort 
says,  "Let  one  consider,  that,  within  the  limit  of 
thirty  lines,  La  Fontaine,  doing  nothing  but  j'ield 
himself  to  tJie  current  of   his  storv,  has  taken  on 


86         Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

every  tone,  that  of  poetry  the  most  graceful,  that  of 
poetrj'  the  most  lofty,  and  one  will  not  hesitate  to 
affirm,  that,  at  the  epoch  at  which  this  fable  ap- 
peared, there  was  nothing  comparable  to  it  in  the 
French  language."  There  are,  to  speak  precisely, 
thirty-two  lines  in  the  fable.  In  this  one  case,  let 
us  try  representing  La  Fontaine's  compression  by 
our  English  form.  For  the  rest  of  our  specimens, 
we  shall  use  Ellizur  Wright's  translation,  —  a  meri- 
torious one,  still  master  of  the  field  which,  near  fifty 
years  ago,  it  entered  as  pioneer.  Mr.  "Wright  here 
expands  La  Fontaine's  thirty-two  verses  to  forty- 
four.  The  additions  are  not  ungraceful,  but  they 
encumber  somewhat  the  Attic  neatness  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  original.  We  ought  to  say,  that  La 
Fontaine  boldly  broke  with  the  tradition  which  had 
been  making  Alexandrines  —  lines  of  six  feet  — 
obligatory  in  French  verse.  He  rhymes  irregularly, 
at  choice,  and  makes  his  verses  long  or  short,  as 
pleases  him.  The  closing  verse  of  the  present  piece 
is,  in  accordance  with  the  intended  majesty  of  the 
representation,  an  Alexandrine. 

The  Oak  one  day  said  to  the  Rcjed, 
''Justly  might  you  dame  Nature  blame; 
A  wren's  weight  would  bow  down  your  frame; 

The  lightest  wind  that  chance  inay  make 

Dimple  the  surface  of  the  lake 

Your  head  bends  low  indeed, 
The  while,  like  Caucasus,  my  front 
To  meet  the  branding  sun  is  wont, 
Nay,  more,  to  take  the  tempest*s  brunt. 


La  Fontaine.  87 

A  blast  you  feel,  I  feel  a  breeze.  _' 

Had  yon  been  born  beneath  my  roof, 
Wide-spread,  of  leafage  weather-proof, 

Less  had  you  known  your  life  to  tease; 

I  should  have  sheltered  you  from  storm. 

But  oftenest  you  rear  your  form 
On  the  moist  limits  of  the  realm  of  wind. 
Nature,  methinks,  against  you  sore  has  sinned." 

"  Your  pity,"  answers  him  Che  Reed, 
"  Bespeaks  you  kind;  but  spare  your  pain; 
I  more  than  you  may  winds  disdain. 

I  bend,  and  break  not.     You,  indeed, 
Against  their  dreadful  strokes  till  now 
Have  stood,  nor  tamed  your  back  to  bow: 
_But  wait  we  for  the  end." 

-Scarce  had  he  spoke, 
When  fiercely  from  the  far  horizon  broke 
The  wildest  of  the  children,  fullest  fraught 
With  terror,  that  till  then  the  North  had  brought. 

The  tree  holds  good;  the  reed  il  bends. 

The  wind  redoubled  might  expends. 
And  so  well  works  that  from  his  bed 
Him  it  uproots  who  nigh  to  heaven  his  head 
Held,  and  whose  feet  reached  to  the  kingdom  of  the 
dead. 


In  the  fable  of  the  "  Rat  retired  from  the 
World,"  La  Fontaine  rallies  the  monks.  With  French 
finesse.,  he  hits  his  mark  by  expressly  avoiding  it. 
"  What  think  you  I  mean  by  my  disobliging  rat?  A 
monk  ?  No,  but  a  Mahometan  devotee ;  I  take  it 
for  granted  that  a  monk  is  always  ready  with  his 
help  to  the  needy  !  " 


88         Classic  French  Course  in  English, 

The  sage  Levantines  have  a  tale 

About  a  rat  that  weary  grew 
Of  all  the  cares  which  life  assail, 

And  to  a  Hollaiul  cheese  withdrew. 
His  solitude  was  there  profound, 
Extending  through  his  world  so  round. 
Our  hermit  lived  on  that  within; 
And  soon  his  industry  had  been 
With  claws  and  teeth  so  good, 

That  in  his  novel  heritage, 

He  had  in  store  for  wants  of  age, 
Both  house  and  livelihood. 
What  more  could  any  rat  desire  ? 

He  grew  fat,  fair,  and  round. 

God's  blessings  thus  redound 
To  those  who  in  his  vows  retire. 
One  day  this  personage  devout, 
Whose  kindness  none  might  doubt, 
Was  asked,  by  certain  delegates 
That  came  from  Rat  United  States, 
For  some  small  aid,  for  they 
To  foreign  parts  were  on  their  way. 
For  succor  in  the  great  cat-war  : 
Ratopolis  beleaguered  sore. 

Their  whole  republic  drained  and  poor, 
No  morsel  in  their  scrips  they  bore. 

Slight  boon  they  craved,  of  succor  sure 
In  days  at  utmost  three  or  four. 
"My  friends,"  the  hermit  said, 
"  To  worldly  things  I'm  dead. 
How  can  a  poor  recluse 
To  such  a  mission  be  of  use  ? 
What  can  he  do  but  pray 
That  God  will  aid  it  on  its  way  ? 
And  so,  my  friends,  it  is  my  prayer 
That  God  will  have  you  in  his  care." 


La  Fontaine.  89 

His  well-fed  saintship  said  no  more, 
But  in  their  faces  shut  the  door. 

Wliat  think  you,  reader,  is  the  service, 
For  wliich  I  use  this  niggard  rat  ? 

To  paint  a  monk  ?    No,  but  a  dervise. 
A  monk,  I  think,  however  fat, 
Must  be  more  bountiful  than  that. 


The  fable  entitled  "  Death  and  the  Dying  "  is 
much  admired  for  its  union  of  pathos  with  wit. 
"The  Two  Doves"  is  another  of  La  Fontaine's 
more  tender  inspirations.  "  The  Mogul's  Dream  " 
is  a  somewhat  ambitious  flight  of  tiie  fabulist's 
muse.  On  the  whole,  however,  the  masterpiece 
among  the  fables  of  La  Fontaine  is  that  of  "The 
Animals  Sick  of  the  Plague."  Such  at  least  is  the 
opinion  of  critics  in  general.  The  idea  of  this  fable 
is  not  original  with  La  Fontaine.  The  homilists  of 
the  middle  ages  used  a  similar  fiction  to  enforce 
on  priests  the  duty  of  impartiality  in  administering 
the  sacrament,  so  called,  of  confession.  AVe  give 
this  famous  fable  as  our  closing  specimen  of  La 
Fontaine :  — 

The  sorest  ill  that  Heaven  hath 
Sent  on  this  lower  world  in  wrath,  — 
The  plague  (to  call  it  by  its  name), 
One  single  day  of  which 
Would  Pluto's  ferryman  enrich, 
Waged  war  on  beasts,  both  wild  and  tame. 
They  died  not  all,  but  all  were  sick: 
No  hunting  now,  by  force  or  trick, 
7 


90         Classic  French   Course  in  English. 

To  save  what  might  so  soon  expire. 
No  food  excited  tlieir  desire: 
Nor  wolf  nor  fox  now  watched  to  slay 
The  innocent  and  tender  prey. 

The  turtles  fled, 
So  love  and  therefore  joy  were  dead. 
The  lion  council  held,  and  said, 
"  My  friends,  I  do  believe 
This  awful  scourge  for  which  we  grieve, 
Is  for  our  sins  a  punishment 
Most  righteously  by  Heaven  sent. 
Let  us  our  guiltiest  beast  resign, 
A  sacrifice  to  wrath  divine. 
Perhaps  this  offering,  truly  small, 
May  gain  the  life  and  health  of  all. 
By  history  we  find  it  noted 
That  lives  have  been  just  so  devoted. 
Then  let  us  all  turn  eyes  within, 
And  ferret  out  the  hidden  sin. 
Himself,  let  no  one  spare  nor  flatter. 
But  make  clean  conscience  in  the  matter. 
For  me,  my  appetite  has  played  the  glutton 
Too  much  and  often  upon  mutton. 
What  harm  had  e'er  my  victims  done  ? 

I  answer,  truly.  None. 
Perhaps,  sometimes,  by  hunger  pressed, 

I've  eat  the  shepherd  with  the  rest. 

I  yield  myself  if  need  there  be; 

And  yet  I  think,  in  equity. 
Each  should  confess  his  sins  with  me; 
For  laws  of  right  and  justice  cry. 
The  guiltiest  alone  should  die." 
"Sire,"  said  the  fox,  "your  majesty 
Is  humbler  than  a  king  should  be, 
And  over-squeamish  in  the  case. 

What!  eating  stupid  sheep  a  crime  P 

No,  never,  sire,  at  any  time. 


La  Fontaine.  91 

It  rather  was  an  a^t  of  grace,  ♦ 

A  mark  of  honor  to  their  race.  " 

And  as  to  shepherds,  one  may  swear. 

The  fate  your  majesty  describes, 
Is  recompense  less  full  than  fair 

For  such  usurpers  o'er  our  tribes." 

Thus  RenarJ  glibly  spoke, 
And  loud  applause  from  listeners  broke. 
Of  neither  tiger,  boar,  nor  bear, 
Did  any  keen  inquirer  dare 
To  ask  for  crimes  of  high  degree  ; 

The  fighters,  biters,  scratchers,  all 
From  every  mortal  sin  were  free; 

The  very  dogs,  both  great  and  small. 

Were  saints,  as  far  as  dogs  could  be. 

The  ass,  confessing  in  his  turn, 
Thus  spoke  in  tones  of  deep  concern : 
"  I  happened  through  a  mead  to  pass; 
The  monks,  its  owners,  were  at  mass: 
Keen  hunger,  leisure,  tender  grass, 

And,  add  to  these  the  devil,  too, 

All  tempted  me  the  deed  to  do. 
I  browsed  the  bigness  of  my  tongue : 
Since  truth  must  out,  I  own  it  wrong." 
On  this,  a  hue  and  cry  arose, 
As  if  the  beasts  were  all  his  foes. 
A  wolf,  haranguing  lawyer-wise. 
Denounced  the  ass  for  sacrifice,  — 
The  bald-pate,  scabby,  ragged  lout. 
By  whom  the  plague  had  come,  no  doubt. 
His  fault  was  judged  a  hanging  crime. 

Wliat!  eat  another's  grass?    Oh,  shame! 
The  noose  of  rope,  and  death  sublime. 

For  that  offence  were  all  too  tame ! 

And  soon  poor  Grizzle  felt  the  samew 


92          Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Thus  human  courts  acquit  the  strong, 
And  doom  the  weak,  as  therefore  wrong. 

It  is  suitable  to  udd.  in  conclusion,  that  La  Fon- 
taine is  a  crncial  author  for  disclosing  the  irrecon- 
cilable difference  that  exists,  at  bottom,  between 
the  Englishman's  and  the  Frenchman's  idea  of 
poetry.  No  English-speaker,  heir  of  Shakspeare 
and  Milton,  Avill  ever  be  able  to  satisfy  a  French-, 
man  with  admiration  such  as  he  can  conscientiously 
profess  for  the  poetry  of  La  Fontaine. 


VII. 

MOLIERE. 
1623-1673. 

MoLiiRE  is  confessedly  the  greatest  writer  of 
comedy  in  the  world.  Greek  Menander  might  have 
disputed  the  palm  ;  but  Menander's  works  have  per- 
ished, and  his  greatness  must  be  guessed.  Who 
knows  but  we  guess  him  too  great?  Moli^re's 
works  snrvive,  and  his  greatness  may  be  measured. 

We  have  stinted  our  praise.  Moli^re  is  not  only 
the  foremost  name  in  a  certain  department  of  litera- 
ture ;  he  is  one  of  the  foremost  names  in  literature. 
The  names  are  few  on  which  critics  are  willing  to 
bestow  this  distinction.  But  critics  generally  agree 
in  bestowing  this  distinction  on  Moli^re. 


MoUere.  93 

Moli^re's  comedy  is  by  no  means  mere  farce. 
Farces  he  wrote,  undoubtedly  ;  and  some  element 
of  farce,  perhaps,  entered  to  qualify  nearly  every 
comedy  that  flowed  from  his  pen.  But  it  is  not  for 
his  farce  that  Moli^re  is  rated  one  of  the  few  great- 
est  producers  of  literature.  Moli^re's  comedy  con- 
stitutes to  Moli^re  the  patent  that  it  does  of  high 
degree  in  genius,  not  because  it  provokes  laughter, 
but  because,  amid  laughter  provoked,  it  not  seldom 
reveals,  as  if  with  flashes  of  lightning,  —  lightning 
playful,  indeed,  but  lightning  that  might  have  been 
deadly,  —  the  "secrets  of  the  nethermost  abyss"  of 
human  nature.  Not  human  manners  merely,  those 
of  a  time,  or  of  a  race,  but  human  attributes,  those 
of  all  times,  and  of  all  races,  are  the  things  with 
which,  in  his  higher  comedies,  Moli&re  deals.  Some 
transient  whim  of  fashion  may  in  these  supply  to 
him  the  mould  of  form  that  he  uses,  but  it  is  human 
nature  itself  that  supplies  to  Moli^re  the  substance 
of  his  dramatic  creations.  Now  and  again,  if  you 
read  Moli^re  wisely  and  deeply,  you  find  your  laugh- 
ter at  comedy  fairly  frozen  in  your  throat,  by  a 
gelid  horror  seizing  you,  to  feel  that  these  follies  or 
these  crimes  displayed  belong  to  that  human  nature, 
one  and  the  same  everywhere  and  always,  of  which 
also  you  yourself  partake.  Comedy,  Dante,  too, 
called  his  poem,  which  included  the  "Inferno." 
And  a  Dantesque  quality,  not  of  method,  but  of 
power,  is  to  be  felt  in  Moli^re. 

This    character   in    Moli^re    the   writer,    accords 


94         Classic  French  Course  in  EnglibJi. 

with  the  character  of  the  man  Moli^re.  It  might 
not  have  seemed  natural  to  say  of  Moli^re,  as  was 
said  of  Dante,  "  There  goes  the  man  that  has  been 
in  hell."  But  Moli^re  was  melancholy  enough  in 
temper  and  in  mien  to  have  well  inspired  an  ex- 
clamation such  as,  '  There  goes  the  man  that  has 
seen  the  human  heart.' 

A  poet  as  well  as  a  dramatist,  his  own  fellow- 
countrymen,  at  least,  feel  Moli^re  to  be.  In  Victor 
Hugo's  list  of  the  eight  greatest  poets  of  all  time, 
two  are  Hebrews  (Job  and  Isaiah),  two  Greeks 
(Homer  and  ^schylus),  one  is  a  Roman  (Lucre- 
tius), one  an  Italian  (Dante),  one  an  Englishman 
(Shakspeare),  —  seven.  The  eighth  could  hardly 
fail  to  be  a  Frenchman,  and  that  Frenchman  is 
Moli(ire.  Mr.  Swinburne  might  perhaps  make  the 
list  nine,  but  he  would  certainly  include  Victor  Hugo 
himself. 

Curiously  enough,  Moli^re  is  not  this  great 
writer's  real  name.  It  is  a  stage  name.  It  was 
assumed  by  the  bearer  when  he  was  about  twenty- 
four  years  of  age,  on  occasion  of  his  becoming  one 
in  a  strolling  band  of  players,  —  in  1G4G  or  thei'e- 
about.  This  band,  originally  composed  of  amateurs, 
developed  into  a  professional  dramatic  company, 
which  passed  through  various  transformations,  until, 
from  being  at  first  grandiloquently  self-styled, 
L'lUustre  Theatre,  it  was,  twenty  j'ears  after,  rec- 
ognized by  the  national  title  of  Theatre  Fran9ais. 
Jlloli^re's  real  name  was  Jean  £aptiste  Poquelia. 


Moliere.  95 

Young  Poquelin's  bent,  early  encouraged  by  see- 
ing plays  and  ballets,  was  strongly  toward  the  stage. 
The  drama,  under  the  quickening  patronage  of 
Louis  XIII. 's  lordly  minister,  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
was  a  great  public  interest  of  those  times  in  Paris. 
Moli^re's  evil  star,  too,  it  was  perhaps  in  part  that 
brought  him  back  to  Paris,  from  Orleans.  He  ad- 
mired a  certain  actress  in  the  capital.  She  became 
the  companion  —  probably  not  innocent  companion 
—  of  his  wandering  life  as  actor.  A  sister  of  this 
actress  —  a  sister  young  enough  to  be  daughter, 
instead  of  sister  —  Moliere  finally  married.  She  led 
her  jealous  husband  a  wretched  conjugal  life.  A 
peculiarly  dark  tradition  of  shame,  connected  with 
Moli^re's  marriage,  has  lately  been  to  a  good  degree 
dispelled.  But  it  is  not  possible  to  redeem  this 
great  man's  fame  to  chastity  and  honor.  lie  paid 
heavily,  in  like  misery  of  his  own,  for  whatever 
pangs  of  jealous\'  he  inflicted.  There  was  some- 
times true  tragedy  for  himself  hidden  within  the 
comedy  that  he  acted  for  othei-s.  (Moliere,  to  the 
very  end  of  his  life,  acted  in  the  comedies  that  he 
wrote.)  When  some  play  of  his  represented  the 
torments  of  jealousy  in  the  heart  of  a  husband,  it 
was  probably  not  so  much  acting,  as  it  was  real  life, 
that  the  spectators  saw  proceeding  on  the  stage  be- 
tween Molidre  and  his  wife,  confronted  with  each 
other  in  performing  the  piece. 

Despite  his  faults,  Moliere  was  cast  in  a  noble, 
generous  mould,  of  character  as  well  as  of  genius. 


96         Classic  French  Course  in  Englisli. 

Expostulated  with  for  persisting  to  appear  on  the 
stage  when  his  health  was  such  that  he  put  his  life 
at  stake  in  so  doing,  he  replied  that  the  men  and 
women  of  his  company  depended  for  their  bread  on 
the  play's  going  through,  and  appear  he  would.  He 
actually  died  an  hour  or  so  after  playing  tlie  part  of 
the  Imaginary'  Invalid  in  his  comedy  of  that  name. 
Tliat  piece  was  tlie  last  work  of  his  pen. 

Moli^re  produced  in  all  some  thirty  dramatic 
pieces,  from  among  which  we  select  a  few  of  the 
most  celebrated  for  brief  description  and  illustra- 
tion. 

The  "Bourgeois  Gentilhomme "  ("Shopkeeper 
turned  Gentleman  ")  partakes  of  the  nature  of  tiie 
farce  quite  as  much  as  it  does  of  the  comedy.  But 
it  is  farce  such  as  only  a  man  of  genius  could  pro- 
duce. In  it  Moli(^re  ridicules  the  airs  and  affectations 
of  a  rich  man  vulgarly  ambitions  to  figure  in  a  social 
rank  too  exalted  for  his  birth,  his  breeding,  or  his 
merit.  Jourdain  is  the  name  under  which  Moli^re 
sr.tirizes  such  a  ciiaracter.  We  give  a  fragment 
from  one  of  the  scenes.  M.  Jourdain  is  in  process 
of  fitting  himself  for  that  higher  position  in  society 
to  which  he  aspires.  He  will  equip  liimself  with 
the  necessary  knowledge.  To  tliis  end  he  emploj'S  a 
professor  of  philosophy  to  come  and  give  iiim  lessons 
at  his  house  :  — 


M.  Jourdain.    I  have  tlie  greatest  desire  In  the  world  to 
be  learned;  and  it  vexes  me  more  than  I  can  tell,  that  my 


Moliere.  97 

father  and  mother  did  not  make  me  learn  thoroughly  all  the 
sciences  when  I  was  young. 

Pkofessor  of  Philosophy.  This  is  a  praiseworthy  feel- 
ing. Nam  sine  doctrina  vita  est  quasi  mortis  imayo.  You 
understand  this,  and  you  have,  no  doubt,  a  knowledge  of 
Latin  ? 

M.  Jour.  Yes;  but  act  as  if  I  liad  none.  Explain  to  me 
the  meaning  of  it. 

Prof.  Phil.  Tlie  meaning  of  it  is,  that,  without  science, 
life  is  an  image  of  death. 

M.  Jour.     That  Latin  is  quite  right. 

Pkof.  Phil.  Have  you  any  principles,  any  rudiments,  of 
science  ? 

M.  JouK.     Oh,  yes!  I  can  read  and  write. 

Prof.  Phil.  With  what  would  you  like  to  begin  ?  Shall 
I  teach  you  logic  ? 

M.  JouR.     And  what  may  this  logic  be  ? 

Prof.  Phil.  It  is  that  which  teaches  us  the  three  opera- 
tions of  the  jnind. 

M.  Jour.  What  are  they  —  these  three  operations  of  the 
mind? 

Prof.  Phil.  The  first,  the  second,  and  the  third.  The 
first  is  to  conceive  well  by  means  of  universals;  the  second, 
to  judge  well  by  means  of  categories;  and  the  third,  to  draw 
a  conclusion  aright  by  means  of  the  figures  Barbara,  Cela- 
rent,  Darii,  Ferio,  Baralipton,  etc. 

M.  Jouii.  Pooh!  what  repulsive  words!  This  logic  does 
not  by  any  means  suit  me.  Teach  me  something  more  en- 
livening. 

Prof.  Phil.     Will  you  learn  moral  philosophy  ? 

M.  JouR.     Moral  philosophy  ? 

Prof.  Phil.    Y"es. 

M.  Jour.     What  does  it  say,  this  moral  philosophy  ? 

Prof.  Phil.  It  treats  of  happiness,  teaches  men  to  mod- 
irate  their  passions,  and  — 

M.  JouB.    No,  none  of  that.     I  am  devilishly  hot-tem' 


98         Classic  French  Course  in  JEnglish. 

pered,  and  morality,  or  no  morality,  I  like  to  give  full  vent 
to  my  anger  whenever  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 

Pkof.  Phil.     Would  you  like  to  learn  physics  ? 

M.  Jouu.     And  what  have  physics  to  say  for  themselves? 

Pkof.  Phil.  Physics  are  that  science  which  explains  the 
principles  of  natural  things  and  the  properties  of  bodies; 
which  discourses  of  the  nature  of  the  elements,  of  metals, 
minerals,  stones,  plants,  and  animals ;  which  teaches  us  the 
cause  of  all  the  meteors,  the  rainbow,  the  hjnis  fatuu.s, 
comets,  lightning,  thunder,  thunderbolts,  rain,  snow,  hail, 
and  whirlwinds. 

M.  Jour.  There  is  too  nmch  hullaballoo  in  all  that,  too 
much  riot  and  rumpus. 

PiiOF.  Phil.     Very  good. 

M.  JouK.  And  now  I  want  to  intrust  you  with  a  great 
secret,  1  am  in  love  with  a  lady  of  quality,  and  I  should  be 
glad  if  you  would  help  me  to  write  something  to  her  in  a  short 
letter  which  I  mean  to  drop  at  her  feet. 

Pkof.  Phil.    Very  well. 

M.  JouK.     That  will  be  gallant,  will  it  not  ? 

Pkof.  Puil.  Undoubtedly.  Is  it  verse  you  wish  to  write 
to  her  ? 

M.  Jour.     Oh,  no !  not  verse. 

Pkof.  Phil.     You  only  wish  prose  ? 

M.  JouK.     No.     I  wish  for  neither  verse  nor  prose. 

Prof.  Phil.     It  must  be  one  or  the  other. 

M.  Jour.    Why  ? 

PiiOF.  Phil.  Because,  sir,  there  is  nothing  by  which  we 
can  express  ourselves  except  prose  or  verse. 

M.  JoUK.     There  is  nothing  but  prose  or  verse  ? 

Prof.  Phil.  No,  sir.  Whatever  is  not  prose,  is  verse; 
and  Avhatever  is  not  verse,  is  prose. 

M.  Joui;.     And  when  we  speak,  what  is  that,  then  ? 

Prof.  Phil.     Prose. 

M.  Jour.  What!  when  I  say,  "Nicole,  bring  me  my 
slippers,  and  give  me  my  nightcap,"  is  that  prose? 


Moliere.  90 

Prof.  Phil.     Yes,  sir. 

M.  Jour  Upon  my  word,  I  have  been  speaking  prose 
these  forty  years  without  being  aware  of  it;  and  I  am  under 
the  greatest  obligation  to  you  for  informing  me  of  it.  Well, 
then,  I  wish  to  write  to  her  in  a  letter,  "  Fair  Marchioness, 
your  beautiful  eyes  make  me  die  of  love;  "  but  I  would  have 
this  worded  in  a  genteel  manner,  and  turned  prettily. 

Prof.  Phil.  Say  that  the  fire  of  her  eyes  has  reduced 
your  heart  to  ashes ;  that  you  suffer  day  and  night  for  her, 
tortures  — 

M.  Jour.  No,  no,  no,  I  don't  any  of  that.  I  simply  wish 
for  what  I  tell  you,  —  "  Fair  Marchioness,  your  beautiful  eyes 
make  me  die  of  love." . 

Prof.  Phil.     Still,  you  might  amplify  the  thing  a  little. 

M.  Jour.  No,  I  tell  you,  I  will  have  nothing  but  these 
very  words  in  the  letter;  but  they  must  be  put  in  a  fashion- 
able way,  and  arranged  as  they  should  be.  Pray  show  me  a 
little,  so  that  I  may  see  the  different  ways  in  which  they  can 
be  put. 

Prof.  Phil.  They  may  be  put  first  of  all,  as  you  have 
said,  "  Fair  Marchioness,  your  beautiful  eyes  make  me  die  of 
love; "  or  else,  '"  Of  love  die  make  me,  fair  Marchioness,  your 
beautiful  eyes;"  or,  "  Your  beautiful  eyes  of  love  make  me, 
fair  Marchioness,  die; "  or,  "  Die  of  love  your  beautiful  eyes, 
fair  Marchioness,  make  me; "  or  else,  "  Me  make  your  beau- 
tiful eyes  die,  fair  Marchioness,  of  love." 

M.  Jour.     But  of  all  these  ways,  which  is  the  best  ? 

Prof.  Phil.  The  one  you  said,  —  "Fair  Marchioness, 
your  beautiful  eyes  make  me  die  of  love." 

M.  Jour.  Yet  I  have  never  studied,  and  I  did  all  right 
off  at  the  first  shot. 


The  "  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme  "  is  a  very  amusing 
comedy  throughout. 

From  "  Les  Femmes  Savantes  "  (*'  The  Learned 


100       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Women  ")  —  "  The  Blue-Stockings,"  we  might  per- 
haps freely  render  the  title  —  we  present  one  scene 
to  indicate  the  nature  of  the  comedy.  There  had 
grown  to  be  a  fashion  in  I'aris,  among  certain  women 
high  in  social  rank,  of  pretending  to  the  distinction 
of  skill  in  literary  criticism,  and  of  proficiency  in 
science.  It  was  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet  reduced 
to  absurdity.  That  fashionable  affectation  Moli&re 
made  the  subject  of  his  comedy,  "The  Learned 
Women." 

In  the  following  extracts,  Moli6re  satiiizes.  under 
the  name  of  Trissotin,  a  contemporary  writer,  one 
Cotin.  The  poem  which  Trissotin  reads  for  the 
learned  women  to  criticise  and  admire,  is  an  actual 
production  of  this  gentleman.  Imagine  the  domestic 
coterie  assembled,  and  Trissotin,  the  poet,  their 
guest.  He  is  present,  prepared  to  regale  them  with 
what  he  calls  his  sonnet.  We  need  to  explain  that 
the  original  poem  is  thus  inscribed :  "  To  Mademoi- 
selle de  Longueville,  now  Duchess  of  Namur,  on 
her  Quartan  Fever."  The  conceit  of  tlie  sonneteer 
is  that  the  fever  is  an  enemy  luxuriously  lodged  in 
the  lovely  person  of  its  victim,  and  there  insidiously 
plotting  against  her  life  :  — 

Trissotin.     Sonnet  to  the  Princess  Urania  on  her  Fever. 
Your  prudence  sure  is  fast  asleep, 
That  thus  hixuriously  you  keep 
And  lodge  magnificently  so 
Your  very  hardest-hearted  foe. 

BtLiSE.     Ah!  what  a  pretty  beginning! 

Aemani>e.    What  a  charming  turn  it  has  I 


Moliire.  101 

Philaminte.  He  alone  possesses  the  talent  of  making 
easy  verses. 

Arm.     We  must  yield  to  prudence  fast  asleep. 

Bel.  Lod(je  one's  very  hardest-hearted  foe  is  full  of 
charms  for  me. 

Phil.  I  like  huiirlousbj  and  magnificently :  these  two 
adverbs  joined  togetlier  sound  admirably. 

B£L.     Let  us  hear  the  rest. 

Tkiss.      Your  prudence  sure  is  fast  asleep, 
That  thus  luxuriously  you  keep 
And  lodge  magnificently  so 
Your  very  hardest-hearted  foe. 

Abm.     Prudence  fast  asleep. 

Bel.     To  lodge  one's  foe. 

Phil.     Luxuriously  and  magnificently. 

Tbiss.    Drive  forth  that  foe,  whate'er  men  say, 
From  out  your  chamber,  decked  so  gay, 
Where,  ingrate  vile,  with  murderous  knife, 
Bold  she  assails  your  lovely  life. 

Bel.    Ah!  gently.     Allow  me  to  breathe,  I  beseech  you 

Arm.     Give  us  time  to  admire,  I  beg. 

Phil.  One  feels,  at  hearing  these  verses,  an  indescribable 
something  which  goes  through  one's  inmost  soul,  and  makes 
one  feel  quite  faint. 

Arm.     Drive  forth  that  foe,  whate'er  men  say. 

From  out  your  chamber,  decked  so  gay  — 
How  prettily  chamber,  decked  so  gay,  is  said  here!    And 
with  what  wit  the  metaphor  is  introduced ! 

Phil.     Drive  forth  that  foe,  whate'er  men  say. 
Ah!  in  what  an  admirable  taste  that  whate'er  men  say  is! 
To  my  mind,  the  passage  is  invaluable. 

Arm.     My  heart  is  also  in  love  with  whate'er  men  say. 

Bel.  I  am  of  your  opinion :  whate'  2r  men  say  is  a  happy 
expression. 

Arm.     I  wish  I  had  written  it. 

Bel.    It  is  worth  a  whole  poem. 


102       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Phil.     But  do  you,  like  me,  thoroughly  understand  the 
wit  of  it  ? 
Akm.  and  Bel.     Oh!    Oh! 
Phil.     Drive  forth  that  foe,  whate'er  men  say. 
Although    another   should  take   the  fever's   part,  pay  no 
attention;  laugh  at  the  gossips. 

Drive  forth  that  foe,  whate'er  men  say, 
Whate'er  men  say,  whate'er  men  say. 
This  tohate'er   men   say,  says   a   great  deal  more  than  it 
seems.    I  do  not  know  if  every  one  is  like  me,  but  I  discover 
in  it  a  hundred  meanings. 

Bel.  It  is  true  that  it  says  more  than  its  size  seems  to 
imply. 

Phil,  (io  Trissotin).  But  when  you  wrote  this  charm- 
ing whatever  men  say,  did  you  yourself  understand  all  its 
energy  ?  Did  you  realize  all  that  it  tells  us  ?  And  did  you 
then  think  that  you  were  writing  something  so  witty  ? 

Triss.     Ah!  ah! 

Arm.  I  have  likewise  the  inrjrate  in  my  head,  —  this 
ungrateful,  unjust,  uncivil  fever  that  ill-treats  people  who 
entertain  her. 

Phil.  In  short,  both  the  stanzas  are  admirable.  Let  us 
come  quickly  to  the  triplets,  I  pray. 

Arm.     Ah!  once  more,  whate'er  men  say,  I  beg. 

Triss.     Drive  forth  that  foe,  whate'er  men  say,  — 

Phil.,  Arm.,  and  Bel.     Whate'er  men  say  ! 

Triss.     From  out  your  chamber,  decked  so  gay,  — 

Phil.,  Arm.,  and  B^l.     Chamber  decked  so  c/ay  ! 

Triss.     Where,  ingrate  vile,  with  murderous  knife,  — 

Phil.,  Arm.,  and  Bel.    That  incjrate  feverl 

Triss.     Bold  she  assails  your  lovely  life. 

Phil.     Your  lovely  life  ! 

Arm.  and  Bel.    Ah! 

Triss.    What !  reckless  of  your  ladyhood, 

Still  fiercely  seeks  to  shed  your  blood,  — 

Phil.,  Arm.,  and  Bel.    Ah! 


Moliere.  ^  103 

Triss.     And  day  and  night  to  work  you  harm. 

When  to  the  baths  sometime  you've  brought  her, 
Xo  more  ado,  with  your  own  arm 
Whelm  her  and  drown  her  in  the  water. 

Phil.    Ah !    It  is  quite  overpowering. 

Bel.     I  faint. 

Abm.     I  die  from  pleasure. 

Phil.     A  thousand  sweet  thrills  seize  one. 

Aem.     When  to  the  baths  sometime  you've  brought  her, 

Bel.     No  more  ado,  icith  your  own  arm 

Pmil.     Whelm  hei\and  drown  her  in  the  water. 
With  your  own  arm,  drown  her  there  in  the  baths. 

Akm.  In  your  verses  we  meet  at  each  step  with  charming 
beauty. 

Bel.     One  promenades  through  them  with  raptm-e. 

Phil.     One  treads  on  fine  things  only. 

Arm.    They  are  little  lanes  all  strewn  with  roses. 

Triss.     Then,  the  sonnet  seems  to  you  — 

Phil.  Admirable,  new;  and  never  did  any  one  make  any 
thing  more  beautiful.  ^  

liEL.  [to  Henriette).  What !  my  niece,  you  listen  to 
what  has  been  read  without  emotion !  You  play  there  but  a 
sorry  part! 

Hex.  We  each  of  us  play  the  best  part  we  can,  my  aunt; 
and  to  be  a  wit  does  not  depend  on  our  will. 

Triss.     My  verses,  perhaps,  are  tedious  to  you. 

Hex.    JS:o^-^-do  not-Hsten.    3--  '  ^^  'VlxJUi^ 

Phil.     Ah !  Let  us  hear  the  epigram. 

But  our  readers,  we  think,  will  consent  to  spare 
the  epigram.  They  will  relish,  however,  a  fragment 
taken  from  a  subsequent  part  of  the  same  protracted 
scene.  The  conversation  has  made  the  transition 
from  literary  criticism  to  philosophy,  in  Moliere's 
time  a  fashionable  study  rendered  such  by  the  con- 


101       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

temporary  genius  and  fame  of  Descartes.    Armande 
resents  the  limitations  imposed  upon  her  sex  :  — 

Akm.  It  is  insulting  our  sex  too  grossly  to  limit  our 
intelligence  to  the  power  of  judging  of  a  skirt,  of  tlie  make 
of  a  garment,  of  the  beauties  of  lace,  or  of  a  new  brocade. 

Bel.  We  must  rise  above  this  shameful  condition,  and 
bravely  proclaim  our  emancipation. 

Triss.  Every  one  knows  my  respect  for  the  fairer  sex,  and 
that,  if  I  render  homage  to  the  brightness  of  their  eyes,  I  also 
honor  the  splendor  of  their  intellect. 

PiiiL.  And  our  sex  does  you  justice  in  this  respect;  but 
we  will  show  to  certain  minds  who  treat  us  with  proud  con- 
tempt, that  women  also  have  knowledge;  that,  like  men, 
they  can  hold  learned  meetings  —  regulated,  too,  by  better 
rules;  that  they  wish  to  unite  what  elsewhere  is  kept  apart, 
join  noble  language  to  deep  learning,  reveal  nature's  laws  by 
a  thousand  experiments;  and,  on  all  questions  proposed, 
admit  every  party,  and  ally  themselves  to  none. 

Triss.     For  order,  I  prefer  peripateticism, 

Phil,     For  abstractions,  I  love  platonism. 

Arm.     Epicurus  pleases  me,  for  his  tenets  are  solid. 

Bel.  I  agree  with  the  doctrine  of  atoms;  but  I  find  it 
difficult  to  understand  a  vacuum,  and  I  much  prefer  subtile 
matter. 

Triss.     I  quite  agree  with  Descartes  about  magnetism. 
,    Arm.     I  like  his  vortices. 

Phil.     And  I,  his  falling  worlds. 

Arm.  I  long  to  see  our  assembly  opened,  and  to  distin- 
guish ourselves  by  some  great  discovery. 

Triss.  Much  is  expected  from  your  enlightened  knowl- 
edge, for  nature  has  hidden  few  things  from  you. 

Phil.  For  my  part,  I  have,  without  boasting,  already 
made  one  discovery;  I  have  plainly  seen  men  in  the  moon. 

Bel.  I  have  not,  I  believe,  as  yet  quite  distinguished 
men,  but  I  have  seen  steeples  as  plainly  as  I  see  you. 


Moliere.  105 

Abm.  In  addition  to  natural  philosophy,  we  will  dive  into 
grammar,  history,  verse,  ethics,  and  politics. 

Phil.  I  find  in  ethics  charms  which  delight  my  heart; 
it  was  formerly  the  admiration  of  great  geniuses:  but  T  give 
the  preference  to  the  Stoics,  and  I  think  nothing  so  grand  as 
their  founder. 

"  Les  Pr^cieuses  Ridicules"  is  an  earlier  and 
lighter  treatment  of  the  same  theme.  The  object  of 
ridicule  in  both  these  pieces  was  a  lapsed  and  degen- 
erate form  of  what  originally  was  a  thing  worthy  of 
respect,  and  even  of  praise.  At  the  Hotel  de  Ram- 
bouillet,  conversation  was  cultivated  as  a  fine  art. 
There  was,  no  doubt,  something  overstrained  in  the 
standards  which  the  ladies  of  that  circle  enforced. 
1'heir  mutual  comnninication  was  all  conducted  in  a 
peculiar  style  of  language,  the  natural  deterioration 
of  which  was  into  a  kind  of  euphuism,  such  as  Eng- 
lish readers  will  remember  to  have  seen  exemplified 
in  Walter  Scott's  Sir  Piercic  Shafton.  These  ladies 
called  each  other,  with  demonstrative  fondness,  "  Ma 
pr6cieuse."  Hence  at  last  the  term  pr^ciense  as  a 
designation  of  ridicule.  Madame  de  Sevign6  was 
a  pr4cieuse.  But  she,  with  many  of  her  peers,  was 
too  rich  in  sarcastic  common  sense  to  be  a  precieuse 
ridicule-  Moliere  himself,  thrifty  master  of  policy 
that  he  was,  took  pains  to  explain  that  he  did  not 
satirize  the  real  thing,  but  only  the  affectation. 

'*  Tartuffe,  or  the  Impostor,"  is  perhaps  the  most 
celebrated  of  all  Moli^re's  plays.  Scarcely  comedy, 
scaj.*cely  tragedy,  it  partakes  of  both  characters. 
6 


106       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Like  traged}',  serious  iu  purpose,  it  lias  a  happy 
endiug  like  comedy.  Pity  and  terror  are  absent ; 
or,  if  not  quite  absent,  these  sentiments  are  present 
raised  only  to  a  pitch  distinctly  below  the  tragic. 
Indignation  is  the  chief  i)assion  excited,  or  detesta- 
tion, perhaps,  rather  than  indignation.  This  feeling 
is  provided  at  last  with  its  full  satisfaction  in  the 
condign  punishment  visited  on  the  impostor. 

The  original  "Tartuffe,"  like  the  most  of  Mo- 
lifere's  comedies,  is  written  in  Hn'med  verse.  We 
could  not,  with  any  effort,  make  the  PZnglish-reading 
student  of  Moliere  sufficiently  feel  how  much  is  lost 
when  the  form  is  lost  which  the  creations  of  this 
great  genius  took,  in  their  native  French,  under  his 
own  master  hand.  A  satisfactory  metrical  render- 
ing is  out  of  the  question.  The  sense,  at  least,  if 
not  the  incommunicable  spirit,  of  the  original  is 
very  well  given  in  Mr.  C.  H.  Wall's  version,  which 
we  use. 

The  story  of  "Tartuffe"  is  briefly  this:  Tar- 
tuffe, the  hero,  is  a  pure  villain.  He  mixes  no 
adulteration  of  good  in  his  composition.  He  is  hy- 
pocrisy itself,  the  strictly  genuine  article.  Tartuffe 
has  completely  imposed  upon  one  Orgon,  a  man  of 
wealth  and  standing.  Orgon,  with  his  wife,  and 
with  his  mother,  in  fact,  believes  in  him  absolutely. 
These  people  have  received  the  canting  rascal  into 
their  house,  and  are  about  to  bestow  upon  him  their 
daughter  in  marriage.  The  following  scene  from 
act  first  shows  the  skill  with  which  Moliere  cx)uld 


MoUere.  107 

exhibit,  in  a  few  strokes  of  bold  exaggeration,  the 
infatuation  of  Orgon's  regard  for  Tartuffe.  Orgon 
has  been  absent  from  home.  He  returns,  and  meets 
Cl^ante,  his  brother,  whom,  in  his  eagerness,  he 
begs  to  excuse  his  not  answering  a  question  just 
addressed  to  him  :  — 

OBGOif  {to  CLtAXTE).  Brother,  pray  excuse  me:  you 
will  kindly  allow  me  to  allay  my  anxiety  by  asking  news  of 
the  family.  ( To  Dokixe,  a  7n aid-servant.)  Has  every  thing 
gone  on  well  these  last  two  days  ?  What  has  happened  ? 
How  is  everybody  ? 

Dor.  The  day  before  yesterday  our  mistress  was  very 
feverish  from  morning  to  night,  and  suffered  from  a  most 
extraordinary  headache. 

Org.    And  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  Tartuffe !  He  is  wonderfidly  well,  stout  and  fat, 
with  blooming  cheeks  and  ruddy  lips. 

Org.    Poor  man ! 

Dor.  In  the  evening  she  felt  very  faint,  and  the  pain  in 
her  head  was  so  great  that  she  could  not  touch  any  thing  at 
supper. 

Org,    And  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  He  ate  his  supper  by  himself  before  her,  and  very 
devoutly  devoured  a  brace  of  partridges,  and  half  a  leg  of 
mutton  hashed. 

Org.     Poor  man ! 

Dor.  She  spent  the  whole  of  the  night  without  getting 
one  wink  of  sleep :  she  was  very  feverish,  and  we  had  to  sit 
up  with  her  until  the  morning. 

Org.    And  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  Overcome  by  a  pleasant  sleepiness,  he  passed  from 
the  table  to  his  room,  and  got  at  once  into  his  warmed  bed, 
where  he  slept  comfortably  till  the  next  morning. 

Obo.    Poor  man ! 


108        Classic  Fre.nch  Course  in  English. 

Dob.  At  last  yielding  to  our  persuasions,  she  consented 
to  be  bled,  and  immediately  felt  relieved. 

Org.     And  Tartiiffe  ? 

DoK.  He  took  heart  right  valiantly,  and  fortifying  his 
soul  against  all  evils,  to  make  up  for  the  blood  which  our 
lady  had  lost,  drank  at  breakfast  four  large  bumpers  of  wine. 

Org.     Poor  man! 

Dor.  Now,  at  last,  they  are  both  well;  and  I  will  go  and 
tell  our  lady  how  glad  you  are  to  hear  of  her  recovery. 

Tartufife  repays  the  trust  and  love  of  his  benefac- 
tor by  making  improper  advances  to  that  benefac- 
tor's wife.  Orgon's  son,  who  does  not  share  his 
father's  confidence  in  Tartuffe,  hai)pens  to  be  an 
unseen  witness  of  the  man's  infamous  conduct.  He 
exposes  the  liypocrite  to  Orgon,  with  the  result  of 
being  himself  expelled  from  the  house  for  his  pains  ; 
while  Tartuffe,  in  recompense  for  the  injury  done  to 
his  feelings,  is  presented  with  a  gift-deed  of  Orgou's 
estate.  But  now  Orgon's  wife  contrives  to  let  her 
husband  see  and  hear  for  himself  the  vileness  of 
Tartuffe.  This  done,  Orgon  confronts  the  villain, 
and,  with  just  indignation,  orders  him  out  of  his 
house.  Tartuffe  reminds  Orgon  that  the  shoe  is  on 
the  other  foot ;  that  he  is  himself  now  owner  there, 
and  that  it  is  Orgon,  instead  of  Tartuffe,  who  must 
go.  Orgon  has  an  interview  with  his  mother,  who  is 
exasperatingly  sure  still  that  Tartuffe  is  a  maligned 
good  man  :  — • 

Madame  Pernelle.     I  can  never  believe,  my  son,  that 
he  would  commit  so  base  an  action. 
Obg.    What  ? 


Moliere.  109 

Per.     Good  people  are  always  subject  to  envy. 

Org.     What  do  you  mean,  mother  ? 

Per.  That  you  live  after  a  strange  sort  here,  and  that 
I  am  but  too  well  aware  of  the  ill  will  they  all  bear  him. 

Org.  What  has  this  ill  will  to  do  with  what  I  have  just 
told  you  ? 

Per.  I  have  told  it  you  a  hundred  times  when  you  were 
young,  that  in  this  world  virtue  is  ever  liable  to  persecution, 
and  that,  although  the  envious  die,  envy  never  dies. 

Org.  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  what  has  happened 
to-day? 

Per.  They  have  concocted  a  hundred  foolish  stories 
against  him. 

Org.     I  have  already  told  you  that  I  saw  it  all  myself. 

Per.     The  malice  of  evil-disposed  persons  is  very  great. 

Org.  You  would  make  me  swear,  mother!  I  tell  you 
that  I  saw  his  audacious  attempt  with  my  own  eyes. 

Per.  Evil  tongues  have  always  some  venom  to  pour 
forth;  and  here  below,  there  is  nothing  proof  against  them. 

Org.  You  are  maintaining  a  very  senseless  argument. 
I  saw  it,  I  tell  you,  —  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes !  what  you 
can  call  s-a-w,  saw!  Must  I  din  it  over  and  over  into  your 
ears,  and  shout  as  loud  as  half  a  dozen  people  ? 

Per.  Gracious  goodness!  appearances  of  ten  deceive  us  I 
We  must  not  always  judge  by  what  we  see. 

Org.     I  shall  go  mad! 

Per.  We  are  by  nature  prone  to  judge  wrongly,  and 
good  is  often  mistaken  for  evil. 

Org.  I  ought  to  look  upon  his  desire  of  seducing  my 
■wife  as  charitable  ? 

Per.  You  ought  to  have  good  reasons  before  you  accuse 
another,  and  you  should  have  waited  till  you  were  quite 
sure  of  the  fact. 

Org.  Heaven  save  the  mark !  how  could  I  be  more  sure  ? 
I  suppose,  mother,  I  ought  to  have  waited  till  —  you  will 
make  me  say  something  foolish. 


110       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Per.  In  short,  his  soul  is  possessed  with  too  pure  a 
zeal ;  and  I  cannot  possibly  conceive  that  he  would  think  of 
attempting  wliat  you  accuse  him  of. 

Org.  If  you  were  not  my  mother,  I  really  don't  know 
what  I  might  now  say  to  you,  you  make  me  so  savage. 

The  short  remainder  of  the  scene  has  for  its  im- 
portant idea,  the  suggestion  that  under  the  existing 
circumstances  some  sort  of  peace  ought  to  be 
patched  up  between  Orgon  and  Tartuffe.  Mean- 
time one  Loyal  is  observed  coming,  whereupon  the 
fourth  scene  of  act  fifth  opens  :  — 

LoY.  (to  DoRiNE  at  the  farther  part  of  the  stage).  Good- 
day,  my  dear  sister;  pray  let  me  speak  to  your  master. 

Dor.  He  is  with  friends,  and  I  do  not  think  he  can  see 
any  one  just  now. 

Ley.  I  would  not  be  intrusive.  1  feel  sure  that  he  will 
find  nothing  unpleasant  in  my  visit:  in  fact,  I  come  for 
something  which  will  be  very  gratifying  to  him. 

Dor.     What  is  your  name  ? 

LoY.  Only  tell  him  that  I  come  from  Mr.  Tartuffe,  fcr 
his  benefit. 

Dor.  (to  Orgon).  It  is  a  man  who  comes  in  a  civil  way 
from  Mr.  Tartuffe,  on  some  business  which  will  make  you 
glad,  he  says. 

Cle.  (to  Orgon).  You  must  see  who  it  is,  and  what  the 
man  wants. 

Org.  (to  CL,:fiANTE).  He  is  coming,  perhaps,  to  settle 
matters  between  us  in  a  friendly  way.  How,  in  this  case, 
ought  I  to  behave  to  him  ? 

Cle.  Don't  show  any  resentment,  and,  if  he  speaks  of 
an  agreement,  listen  to  him. 

LoY.  (<o  Orgon).  Your  servant,  sir!  May  heaven  pun- 
ish whoever  wrongs  you !  and  may  it  be  as  favorable  to  you, 
sir,  as  I  wishl 


Moliere,  111 

Org.  {aside  to  Cl^antk).  This  pleasant  beginning 
ngrees  with  ray  conjectures,  and  argues  some  sort  of  recon- 
ciliation. 

LoY.  All  your  family  was  always  dear  to  me,  and  I 
served  your  father. 

Org.  Sir,  I  am  sorry  and  ashamed  to  say  that  I  do  not 
know  who  you  are,  neither  do  I  remi  mber  your  name. 

LoY.  My  name  is  Loyal ;  I  was  born  in  Normandy,  and 
am  a  royal  bailiff  in  spite  of  envy.  For  the  last  forty  years 
I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  fill  the  office,  thanks  to 
Heaven,  with  great  credit;  and  1  come,  sir,  with  your  leave, 
to  serve  you  the  writ  of  a  certain  order. 

Org.     What !  you  are  here  — 

LoY.  Gently,  sir,  I  beg.  It  is  merely  a  summons, — a 
notice  for  you  to  leave  this  place,  you  and  yours;  to  take 
away  all  your  goods  and  chattels,  and  make  room  for  others, 
without  delay  or  adjournment,  as  hereby  decreed. 

Org.    I!  leave  this  place  ? 

LoY.  Yes,  sir;  if  you  please.  The  house  incontestably 
belongs,  as  you  are  well  aware,  to  the  good  Mr.  Tartuffe. 
He  is  now  lord  and  master  of  your  estates,  according  to  a 
deed  I  have  in  my  keeping.  It  is  in  due  form,  and  cannot 
be  challenged. 

Damis  {to  Mr.  Loyal).  This  great  impudence  is,  in- 
deed, worthy  of  all  admiration. 

Ley.  {to  Damis).  Sir,  I  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with 
you.  {Pointing  to  Orgox.)  My  business  is  with  this  gen- 
tleman. He  is  tractable  and  gentle,  and  knows  too  well  the 
duty  of  a  gentleman  to  try  to  oppose  authority. 

Org.    But  — 

LoY.  Yes,  sir:  I  know  that  you  would  not,  for  any 
thing,  show  contumacy;  and  that  you  will  allow  me,  like  a 
reasonable  man,  to  execute  the  orders  I  have  received.  .  .  . 

The  scene  gives  in  conclusion  some  spirited  by- 
play of  asides  and  interruptions  from  indignant  mem- 


112       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

bers  of  the  family.  Then  follows  scene  fifth,  one 
exchange  of  conversation  from  which  will  sufliciently 
indicate  the  progress  of  the  plot :  — 

Org.  Well,  mother,  you  see  whether  I  am  right;  and  you 
can  judge  of  the  rest  by  the  writ.  Do  you  at  last  acknowl- 
edge his  rascality  ? 

Per.  I  am  thunderstruck,  and  can  scarcely  believe  my 
eyes  and  ears. 

The  next  scene  introduces  Val^re,  the  noble  lover 
of  that  daughter  whom  the  infatuated  father  was 
bent  on  sacrificing  to  Tartuflfe.  Valere  comes  to 
announce  that  Tartuffe,  the  villain,  has  accused  Or- 
gon  to  the  king.  Orgon  must  fly.  Valere  offers 
him  his  own  carriage  and  money,  —  will,  in  fact, 
himself  keep  him  companj*  till  he  reaches  a  place  of 
safety.  As  Orgon,  taking  hasty  leave  of  his  family, 
turns  to  go,  he  is  encountered  by  —  the  following 
scene  will  show  whom  :  — 

Tar,  (stopping  Orgon).  Gently,  sir,  gently;  not  so  fast, 
I  beg.  You  have  not  far  to  go  to  find  a  lodging,  and  you  are 
a  prisoner  in  the  king's  name. 

Org.  Wretch  !  you  had  reserved  this  shaft  for  the  last; 
by  it  you  finish  me,  and  crown  all  your  perfidies. 

Tar.  Your  abuse  has  no  power  to  disturb  me,  and  I 
know  how  to  suffer  every  thing  for  the  sake  of  Heaven. 

Clk.  Your  moderation  is  really  great,  we  must  acknowl- 
edge. 

Da.  How  impudently  the  infamous  wretch  sports  with 
Heaven! 

Tar.  Your  anger  cannot  move  me.  I  have  no  othei 
wish  but  to  fulfil  my  duty. 


Moliere.  113 

Marianne.  You  may  claim  great  glory  from  the  per- 
formance of  this  duty:  it  is  a  very  honorable  employment 
for  you. 

Tail  The  employment  cannot  be  otherwise  than  glori. 
ous,  when  it  comes  from  the  power  that  sends  me  here, 

Okg.  But  do  you  remember  that  my  charitable  hand, 
ungrateful  scoundrel,  raised  you  from  a  state  of  misery  ? 

Tau,  Yes,  I  know  what  help  I  have  received  from  you; 
but  the  interest  of  my  king  is  my  first  duty.  Tlie  just  obli- 
gation of  this  sacred  duty  stifles  in  my  heart  all  other  claims; 
and  I  would  sacrifice  to  it  friend,  wife,  relations,  and  myself 
with  them. 

Elmire.     Tlie  impostor! 

Dor.  With  what  treacherous  cunning  he  makes  a  cloak 
of  all  that  men  revere !  .  .  . 

Tar.  (to  the  Officer).  I  beg  of  you,  sir,  to  deliver  me 
from  all  this  noise,  and  to  act  according  to  the  orders  you 
have  received. 

Officer.  I  have  certainly  put  off  too  long  the  discharge 
of  my  duty,  and  you  very  rightly  remind  me  of  it.  To  execute 
my  order,  follow  me  immediately  to  the  prison  in  which  a 
place  is  assigned  to  you. 

Tar.    Who  ?    I,  sir  ? 

Officer.    Yes,  you. 

Tar.     Why  to  prison  ? 

Officer.  To  you  I  have  no  account  to  render.  (To  Or- 
GON.)  Pray,  sir,  recover  from  your  great  alarm.  We  live 
under  a  king  [Louis  XIV.]  who  is  an  enemy  to  fraud,  —  a  king 
who  can  read  the  heart,  and  whom  all  the  arts  of  impostors 
cannot  deceive.  His  great  mind,  endowed  with  delicate  dis- 
cernment, at  all  times  sees  things  in  their  true  light.  .  .  . 
He  annuls,  by  his  sovereign  will,  the  terms  of  the  contract  by 
which  you  gave  him  [Tartuffe]  your  property.  He  moreover 
forgives  you  this  secret  offence  in  which  you  were  involved 
by  the  flight  of  your  friend.  This  to  reward  the  zeal  which 
you  once  showed  for  him  in  maintaining  his  rights,  and  to 


114       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

prove  that  bis  heart,  when  it  is  least  expected,  knows  how 
to  recompense  a  good  action.  Merit  with  him  is  never  lost, 
and  he  remembers  good  better  than  evil. 

Don.     Heaven  be  thanked ! 

Per.     All !  I  breathe  again. 

El.     What  a  favorable  end  to  our  troubles ! 

Mar,     Who  would  have  foretold  it  ? 

Org.  (^0  Tartuffe,  as  <Ae  Officer  ieads  Aim  o#).  Ah, 
wretch!  now  you  are  — 

Tartuffe  thus  disposed  of,  the  play  promptly  ends, 
with  a  vauishing  glimpse  afforded  us  of  a  happy 
marriage  in  prospect  for  Val^re  with  the  daughter. 

Moli^re  is  said  to  have  had  a  personal  aim  in 
drawing  the  character  of  Tartuffe.  This,  at  least, 
was  like  Dante.  There  is  not  much  sweet  laughter 
in  such  a  comedy.  But  there  is  a  power  that  is 
dreadful. 

Each  succeeding  generation  of  Frenchmen  supplies 
its  bright  and  ingenious  wits  who  produce  comedy. 
But  as  there  is  no  second  Shakspeare,  so  there  is 
but  one  Moli^re. 


Pascal.  115 

VIII. 

PASCAL. 
1623-1662. 

Pascal's  fame  is  distinctly  the  fame  of  a  man  of 
genius.  He  achieved  notable  things.  But  it  is 
what  he  might  have  done,  still  more  than  what  he 
did,  that  fixes  his  estimation  in  the  world  of  mind. 
Blaise  Pascal  is  one  of  the .  chief  intellectual  glories 
of  France. 

Pascal,  the  boy,  had  a  strong  natural  bent  toward 
mathematics.  The  story  is  that  his  father,  in  order 
to  turn  his  sou's  whole  force  on  the  study  of  lan- 
guages, put  out  of  the  lad's  reach  all  books  treating 
his  favorite  subject.  Thus  shut  up  to  his  own 
resources,  the  masterful  little  fellow,  about  his 
eighth  year,  drawing  charcoal  diagrams  on  the  floor, 
made  perceptible  progress  in  working  out  geometry 
for  himself.  At  sixteen  he  produced  a  treatise  on 
conic  sections  that  excited  the  wonder  and  incredu- 
lity of  Descartes.  Later,  he  experimented  in  ba- 
rometry,  and  pursued  investigations  in  mechanics. 
Later  still,  he  made  what  seemed  to  be  approaches 
toward  Newton's  binomial  theorem. 

Vivid  religious  convictions  meantime  deeply 
affected  Pascal's  mind.  His  health,  never  robust, 
began    to   give   way.      His    physicians    prescribed 


116       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

mental  diversion,  and  forced  him  into  society.  That 
medicine,  taken  at  first  with  reluctance,  proved  dan- 
gerously delightful  to  Pascal's  vivacious  and  suscep- 
tible spirit.  His  pious  sister  Jacqueline  warned  her 
brother  that  he  was  going  too  far.  But  he  was  still 
more  effectively  warned  by  an  accident,  in  which  he 
almost  miraculously  escaped  from  death.  With- 
drawing from  the  world,  he  adopted  a  course  of 
ascetic  practices,  in  which  he  continued  till  he  died  — 
in  his  thirty-ninth  year.  He  wore  about  his  waist  an 
iron  girdle  armed  with  sharp  points  ;  and  this  he 
would  press  smartly  with  his  elbow  when  he  detected 
himself  at  fault  in  his  spirit. 

Notwithstanding  what  Pascal  did  or  attempted, 
worthy  of  fame,  in  science,  it  was  his  fortune  to 
become  chiefly  renowned  by  literary  achievement. 
His,  in  fact,  would  now  be  a  half-forgotten  name  if 
he  had  not  written  the  "Provincial  Letters"  and 
the  "Tlioughts." 

The  "  Provincial  Letters  "  is  an  abbreviated  title. 
The  title  in  full  originally  was,  "  Letters  written 
by  Louis  de  Montalte  to  a  Provincial,  one  of  his 
friends,  and  to  the  Reverend  Fathers,  the  Jesuits, 
on  the  subject  of  the  morality  and  the  policy  of 
those  Fathers." 

Of  the  "Provincial  Letters,"  several  English 
translations  have  been  made.  No  one  of  these  that 
we  have  been  able  to  find,  seems  entirely  satisfac- 
tory. There  is  an  elusive  quality  to  Pascal's  style, 
and  in  losing  this  you  seem  to  lose  something  of 


Pascal.  117 

Pascal's  thought.  For  with  Pascal  the  thought  and 
the  style  penetrate  each  other  inextricably  and 
almost  indistinguishably.  You  cannot  print  a  smile, 
an  inflection  of  the  voice,  a  glance  of  the  eye,  a 
French  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  And  such  modula- 
tions of  the  thought  seem  everywhere  to  lurk  in  the 
turns  and  phrases  of  Pascal's  inimitable  French. 
To  translate  them  is  impossible. 

Pascal  is  beyond  question  the  greatest  modem 
master  of  that  indescribably  delicate  art  in  expres- 
sion, which,  from  its  illustrious  ancient  exemplar, 
has  received  the  name  of  the  Socratic  irony.  With 
this  fine  weapon,  in  great  part,  it  was,  wielded  like  a 
magician's  invisible  wand,  that  Pascal  did  his  mem- 
orable execution  on  the  Jesuitical  S3'stem  of  morals 
and  casuistry,  in  the  "Provincial  Letters."  In 
great  part,  we  say  ;  for  the  flaming  moral  earnestness 
of  the  man  could  not  abide  only  to  play  with  his 
adversaries,  to  the  end  of  the  famous  dispute.  His 
lighter  cimeter  blade  he  flung  aside  before  he  had 
done,  and,  toward  the  last,  brandished  a  sword  that 
had  weight  as  well  as  edge  and  temper.  The  skill 
that  could  halve  a  feather  in  the  air  with  the  sword 
of  Saladin  was  proved  to  be  also  strength  that  could 
cleave  a  suit  of  mail  with  the  brand  of  Richard  the 
Lion-hearted. 

It  is  universally  acknowledged,  that  the  French 
language  has  never  in  any  hands  been  a  more 
obedient  instrument  of  intellectual  power  than  it 
was  in  the  hands  of  Pascal.     He  is  rated  the  earli- 


118       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

est  writer  to  produce  what  may  be  called  the  final 
French  prose.  "  The  creator  of  French  style," 
Villem'ain  boldly  calls  him.  Pascal's  stj'le  remains 
to  this  day  almost  perfectly  free  from  adhesions  of 
archaism  in  diction  and  in  construction.  Pascal 
showed,  as  it  were  at  once,  what  the  French  lan- 
guage was  capable  of  doing  in  response  to  the 
demands  of  a  master.  It  was  the,  joint  achievement 
of  genius,  of  taste,  and  of  skill,  working  together  in 
an  exquisite  balance  and  harmony. 

But  let  us  be  entirely  frank.  The  "Provincial  Let- 
ters "  of  Pascal  are  now,  to  the  general  reader,  not  so 
interesting  as  from  their  fame  one  would  seem  enti- 
tled to  expect.  You  cannot  read  them  intelligently 
without  considerable  previous  study.  You  need  to 
.have  learned,  imperfectly,  with  labor,  a  thousand 
things  that  every  contemporary  reader  of  Pascal 
perfectly  knew,  as  if  by  simply  breathing,  —  the  ne- 
cessary knowledge  being  then,  so  to  speak,  abroad  in 
the  air.  Even  thus,  j'ou  cannot  possibly  derive  that 
vivid  delight  from  perusing  in  bulk  the  "  Provincial 
Letters"  now,  which  the  successive  numbers  of  the 
series,  appearing  at  brief  irregular  intervals,  commu- 
nicated to  the  eagerly  expecting  French  public,  at  a 
time  when  the  topics  discussed  were  topics  of  a  pres- 
ent and  pressing  practical  interest.  Still,  with  what- 
ever disadvantage  unavoidably  attending,  we  must 
give  our  readers  a  taste  of  the  quality  of  Pascal's 
"  Provincial  Letters." 

We  select  a  passage  kt  the  commencement  of  the 


Pascal.  119 

Seventh  Letter.  We  use  the  translation  of  Mr. 
Thomas  M'Crie.  This  succeeds  very  well  in  con- 
veying the  sense,  though  it  necessarily  fails  to  convey 
either  the  vivacity  or  the  eloquence,  of  the  incompar- 
able original.  The  first  occasion  of  the  "  Provincial 
Letters"  was  a  championship  proposed  to  Pascal 
to  be  taken  up  by  him  on  behalf  of  his  beleaguered 
and  endangered  friend  Arnauld,  the  Port-Royalist. 
(Port  Royal  was  a  Roman-Catholic  abbej%  situated 
some  eight  miles  to  the  south-west  of  Versailles,  and 
therefore  not  verj-  remote  from  Paris.)  Arnauld 
was  "  for  substance  of  doctrine  "  reall}^  a  Calvinist, 
though  he  quite  sincerely  disclaimed  being  such  ;  and 
it  was  for  his  defence  of  Calvinism  (under  its  ancient 
form  of  Augustiuianism)  that  he  was  threatened, 
through  Jesuit  enmity,  with  condemnation  for  heret- 
ical opinion.  The  problem  was  to  enlist  the  senti- 
ment of  general  societ}'  in  his  favor.  The  friends 
in  council  at  Port  Royal  said  to  Pascal,  "  You  must 
do  this."  Pascal  said,  "  I  will  try."  In  a  few 
days,  the  first  letter  of  a  series  destined  to  such 
fame,  was  submitted  for  judgment  to  Port  Royal 
and  approved.  It  was  printed  —  anonymously.  The 
success  was  instantaneous  and  brilliant.  A  second 
letter  followed,  and  a  third.  Soon,  from  strict  per- 
sonal defence  of  Arnauld,  the  writer  went  on  to  take 
up  a  line  of  offence  and  aggression.  He  carried  the 
war  into  Africa.  He  attacked  the  Jesuits  as  teachers 
of  immoral  doctrine. 

The  plan  of  these  later  letters  was,  to  have  a  Paris 


120       Classic  French   Course  in  English. 

gentleman  write  to  a  friend  of  his  in  the  country  (the 
"  provincial  ") ,  detailing  interviews  held  by  him  with 
a  Jesuit  priest  of  the  city.  The  supposed  Parisian 
gentleman,  in  his  interviews  with  the  supposed  Jesuit 
father,  affects  tlie  air  of  a  very  simple-hearted  seeker 
after  truth.  He  represents  himself  as,  by  his  inno- 
cent-seeming docility,  leading  his  Jesuit  teacher  on 
to  make  the  most  astonishingly  frank  exposures  of 
the  secrets  of  the  casuistical  system  held  and  taught 
by  his  order. 

The  Seventh  Letter  tells  the  story  of  how  Jesuit 
confessors  were  instructed  to  manage  their  penitents 
in  a  matter  made  immortally  famous  by  the  wit  and 
genius  of  Pascal,  the  matter  of  "  directing  the  inten- 
tion. ' '  There  is  nothing  in  the  ' '  Provincial  Letters ' ' 
better  suited  than  this  at  the  same  time  to  interest 
the  general  reader,  and  to  display  the  quality  of  these 
renowned  productions.  (We  do  not  scruple  to  change 
our  chosen  translation  a  little,  at  points  where  it 
seems  to  us  susceptible  of  some  easy  improvement.) 
Remember  it  is  an  imaginary  Parisian  gentleman 
who  now  writes  to  a  friend  of  his  in  the  country  :  — 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "that  the  ruling  passion  of  per- 
sons in  that  rank  of  life  [the  rank  of  gentleman]  is  '  the  point 
of  honor,'  which  is  perpetually  driving  them  into  acts  of  vio- 
lence apparently  quite  at  variance  with  Christian  piety;  so 
that,  in  fact,  they  would  be  almost  all  of  them  excluded  from 
our  confessionals,  had  not  our  fathers  relaxed  a  little  from 
the  strictness  of  religion,  to  accommodate  themselves  to  the 
weakness  of  humanity.  Anxious  to  keep  on  good  terms,  both 
with  the  gospel,  by  doing  their  duty  to  God,  and  with  the 


Pascal.  121 

men  of  the  world,  by  showing  charity  to  their  neighbor,  they 
needed  all  the  wisdom  they  possessed  to  devise  expedients  for 
so  nicely  adjusting  matters  as  to/ permit  these  gentlemen  to 
adopt  the  methods  usually  resorted  to  for  vindicating  their 
honor  without  wounding  their  consciences,  and  thus  recon- 
cile things  apparently  so  opposite  to  each  other  as  piety  and 
the  point  of  honor.".  .  . 

"  I  should  certainly  [so  replies  M.  Montalte,  with  the 
most  exquisite  irony  couched  under  a  cover  of  admiring  sim- 
plicity], —  I  should  certainly  have  considered  the  thing  per- 
fectly impracticable,  if  I  had  not  known,  from  Mhat  I  have 
seen  of  your  fathers,  that  they  are  capable  of  doing  with  ease 
what  is  impossible  to  other  men.  This  led  me  to  anticipate 
that  they  must  have  discovered  some  method  for  meeting  the 
difficulty,  — a  method  which  I  admire,  even  before  knowing 
it,  and  which  I  pray  you  to  explain  to  me." 

**  Since  that  is  your  view  of  the  matter,"  replied  the  monk, 
"I  cannot  refuse  you.  Know,  then,  that  this  marvellous 
principle  is  our  grand  method  of  directing  the  intention  — 
the  importance  of  which,  in  our  moral  system,  is  such,  that 
I  might  almost  venture  to  compare  it  with  the  doctrine  of 
probability.  You  have  had  some  glimpses  of  it  in  passing, 
from  certain  maxims  which  I  mentioned  to  you.  For  exam- 
ple, when  I  was  showing  you  how  servants  might  execute 
certain  troublesome  jobs  with  a  safe  conscience,  did  you  not 
remark  that  it  was  simply  by  diverting  their  intention  from 
the  evil  to  which  they  were  accessory,  to  the  profit  which 
they  might  reap  from  the  transaction  ?  Now,  that  is  what 
■ws  call  directing  the  intention.  You  saw,  too,  that,  were  it 
not  for  a  similar  divergence  of  the  mind,  those  who  give 
money  for  benefices  might  be  downright  simoniacs.  But  I 
will  now  show  you  this  grand  method  in  all  its  glory,  as  it 
applies  to  the  subject  of  homicide,  — a  crime  which  it  justifies 
in  a  thousand  instances,  — in  order  that,  from  this  startling 
result,  you  may  form  an  idea  of  all  that  it  is  calculated  to 
effect." 

9 


122        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

"  I  foresee  already,"  said  I,  "  that,  according  to  this  mode, 
every  thing  will  be  perinitte.l:  it  will  stick  at  nothing." 

"  You  always  fly  from  the  one  extreme  to  the  other,"  re- 
plied the  monk  ;  "  prithee  avoid  that  habit.  For  just  to 
show  you  that  we  are'far  from  permitting  every  thing,  let 
me  tell  you  that  we  never  suffer  such  a  thing  as  a  formal  in- 
tention to  sin,  with  the  sole  design  of  sinning  ;  and,  if  any 
person  whatever  should  persist  in  having  no  other  end  but 
evil  in  the  evil  that  he  does,  we  break  with  him  at  once  :such 
conduct  is  diabolical.  This  holds  true,  without  exception  of 
age,  sex,  or  rank.  But  when  the  person  is  not  of  such  a 
wretched  disposition  as  this,  we  try  to  put  in  practice  our 
method  of  directing  the  intention,  which  consists  in  his  pro- 
posing to  himself,  as  the  end  of  his  actions,  some  allowable 
object.  Not  that  we  do  not  endeavor,  as  far  as  we  can,  to 
dissuade  men  from  doing  things  forbidden ;  but,  when  we  can- 
not jjrevent  the  action,  we  at  least  purify  the  motive,  and  thus 
correct  the  viciousness  of  the  mean  by  the  goodness  of  the 
end.  Such  is  the  way  in  which  our  fathers  have  contrived  to 
permit  those  acts  of  violence  to  which  men  usually  resort  in 
vindication  of  their  honor.  They  have  no  more  to  do  than 
to  turn  off  their  intention  from  the  desire  of  vengeance, 
which  is  criminal,  and  direct  it  to  a  desire  to  defend  their 
honor,  which,  according  to  us,  is  quite  warrantable.  And 
in  this  way  our  doctors  discharge  all  their  duty  towards  God 
and  towards  man.  By  permitting  the  action,  they  gratify 
the  world;  and  by  purifying  the  intention,  they  give  satis- 
faction to  the  gospel.  This  is  a  secret,  sir,  which  was 
entirely  unknown  to  the  ancients  ;  the  world  is  indebted  for 
the  discovery  entirely  to  our  doctors.  You  understand  it 
now,  I  hope  ?" 

"Perfectly,"  was  my  reply.  "To  men  you  grant  the 
outward  material  effect  of  the  action,  and  to  God  you  give 
the  inward  and  spiritual  movement  of  the  intention  ;  and, 
by  this  equitable  partition,  you  form  an  alliance  between  the 
laws  of  God  and  the  laws  of  men.     But,  my  dear  sir,  to  be 


Pascal.  123 

frank  with  you,  I  can  hardly  tnist  your  premises,  and  I  sus- 
pect that  your  authors  will  tell  another  tale." 

"  You  do  me  injustice,"  rejoined  the  monk  ;  "  I  advance 
nothing  but  what  I  am  realy  to  prove,  an  1  that  by  such  a 
rich  array  of  passages,  that  altogether  their  number,  tlieir 
authority,  and  their  reasonings,  will  fill  you  witli  admira- 
tion. To  show  you,  for  example,  the  alliance  whicli  our 
fathers  have  formed  between  the  maxims  of  the  gospel  and 
those  of  the  world,  by  thus  regulating  tlie  intention,  let  me 
refer  you  to  Reginald.  (Tn  praxL,  liv.  xxi.,num.  G2,  p.  260.) 
[These,  and  all  that  follow,  are  verifiable  citations  from  real 
and  undisputed  Jesuit  authorities,  not  to  this  day  repudiated 
by  that  order.]  '  Private  persons  are  forbidden  to  avenge 
themselves;  for  St.  Paul  says  to  the  Romans  (cli,  12'.h), 
" Recompense  to  no  man  evil  for  evil;"  and  Ecclesiasticus 
says  (ch.  2Stli),  "  He  tliat  taketh  vengeance  shall  draw  on 
himself  the  vengeance  of  God,  and  his  sins  will  not  be  for- 
gotten." Besides  all  that  is  said  in  tlie  gospel  about  forgiv- 
ing offences,  as  in  the6th  and  IStli  cliapters  of  St.  Matthew.' " 

"  Well,  father,  if  after  that,  he  [Reginald]  says  any  tiling 
contrary  to  the  Scripture,  it  will,  at  least,  not  be  irom  lack 
of  scriptural  knowledge.     Pray,  how  does  he  conclude  ?  " 

"You  shall  hear,"  he  said.  "From  all  this  it  appears 
that  a  military  man  may  demand  satisfaction  on  the  spot 
from  the  peison  who  has  injured  liim  —  not,  indeed,  with 
the  intention  of  rendering  evil  for  evil,  but  with  tliat  of  pre- 
serving his  honor  —  non  ut  malum  pro  malo  reddat,  sed  tit 
consercnt  honor  em.  See  you  how  carefully,  because  the 
Scripture  condemns  it,  they  guard  against  the  intention  of 
rendering  evil  for  evil  ?  Tliis  is  wliat  tliey  will  tolerate  on 
no  account.  Thus  Lessius  observes  (De  Just.,  liv.  ii.,  c.  9, 
d.  12,  n.  79),  that,  '  If  a  man  has  received  a  blow  on  the  face, 
he  must  on  no  account  liave  an  intention  to  avenge  himself  ; 
but  he  may  lawfully  have  an  intention  to  avert  infamy,  and 
may,  with  that  view,  repel  tlie  insult  immediately,  even  at 
the  point  of  the  sword  —  etiam  cum  gladio.'     So  far  are  w» 


124        Classic  French  Course  in  Unglish. 

from  permitting  any  one  to  cherish  the  design  of  taking  ven- 
geance on  his  enemies,  that  our  fathers  will  not  allow  any 
even  to  wish  their  death  —  by  a  movement  of  hatred.  '  If 
your  enemy  is  disposed  to  injure  you,'  says  Escobar,  '  you 
liave  no  right  to  wish  his  death,  by  a  movement  of  hatred  ; 
though  you  may,  with  a  view  to  save  yourself  from  harm.' 
So  legitimate,  in!lped,'is  this  wish,  with  such  an  intention, 
that  our  great  Hurtado  de  Mendoza  says  that '  we  may  pray 
God  to  visit  with  speedy  death  those  who  are  bent  on  persecut- 
ing us,  if  there  is  no  other  way  of  escaping  from  it.'  "  (In 
his  book,  De  Spe,  vol.  ii.,  d.  15,  sec.  4,  48.) 

"  May  it  please  your  reverence,"  said  I,  "  the  Church  has 
forgotten  to  insert  a  petition  to  that  effect  among  her 
prayers." 

"  They  have  not  put  every  thing  into  tlie  prayers  that 
one  may  lawfully  ask  of  God,"  answered  the  monk.  "  Be- 
sides, in  the  present  case,  the  thing  was  impossible,  for  this 
same  opinion  is  of  more  recent  standing  than  the  Breviary. 
You  are  not  a  good  chronologist,  friend.  But,  not  to  wander 
from  tlie  point,  let  me  request  your  attention  to  the  following 
passage,  cited  by  Diana  from  Gaspar  Hurtado  (De  Sub. 
Pecc,  diff.  9  ;  Diana,  p.  5  ;  tr.  14,  r.  99),  one  of  Escobar's 
four-and-twenty  fathers  :  *  An  incumbent  may,  without  any 
mortal  sin,  desire  the  decease  of  a  life-renter  on  his  benefice, 
and  a  son  that  of  his  father,  and  rejoice  when  it  happens  ; 
provided  always  it  is  for  the  sake  of  tlie  profit  that  is  to 
accrue  from  the  event,  and  not  from  personal  aversion. '  " 

"  Good,"  cried  I.  "  That  is  certainly  a  very  happy  hit, 
and  I  can  easily  see  that  tlie  doctrine  admits  of  a  wide  appli- 
cation. But  yet  there  are  certain  cases,  the  solution  of 
which,  though  of  great  importance  for  gentlemen,  might 
present  still  greater  difficulties." 

"Propose  such,  if  you  please,  that  we  may  see,"  said  the 
monk. 

"  Show  me,  with  all  your  directing  of  the  intention,"  re- 
turned I,  "  that  it  is  allowable  to  fight  a  dueL" 


Pascal.  125 

"  Our  great  Hurtado  de  Mendoza,"  said  the  father,  "  will 
satisfy  you  on  that  point  in  a  twinkling.  '  If  a  gentleman,' 
says  he,  in  a  passage  cited  by  Diana,  '  who  is  challenged  to 
fight  a  duel,  is  well  known  to  have  no  religion,  and  if  the 
vices  to  which  he  is  openly  and  unscrupulously  addicted,  are 
such  as  would  lead  people  to  conclude,  in  the  event  of  his 
refusing  to  fight,  tliat  he  is  actuated,  not  by  the  fear  of  God, 
but  by  cowardice,  and  induce  them  to  say  of  him  that  he  was 
a  hen,  and  not  a  man — gallina,  et  non  vlr  ;  in  that  case  he 
may,  to  save  his  honor,  appear  at  the  appointed  spot  —  not, 
indeed,  with  the  express  intention  of  fighting  a  duel,  but 
merely  with  that  of  defending  himself,  should  the  person 
who  challenged  him  come  there  unjustly  to  attack  him.  Ilis 
action  in  this  case,  viewed  by  itself,  will  be  perfectly  indiffer- 
ent ;  for  what  moral  evil  is  there  in  one's  stepping  into  a 
field,  taking  a  stroll  in  expectation  of  meeting  a  person,  and 
defending  one's  self  in  the  event  of  being  attacked  ?  And 
thus  the  gentleman  is  guilty  of  no  sin  whatever  ;  for  in  fact, 
it  cannot  be  called  accepting  a  challenge  at  all,  his  intention 
being  directed  to  other  circumstances,  and  the  acceptance  of 
a  challenge  consisting  in  an  express  intention  to  fight, 
which  we  are  supposing  the  gentleman  never  had.'  " 

The  humorous  irony  of  Pascal,  in  the  "  Provincial 
Letters,"  plays  like  the  diffusive  sheen  of  an  aurora 
borealis  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  composition. 
It  docs  not  often  deliver  itself  startlingly  in  sudden 
discharges  as  of  lightning.  You  need  to  school  j'our 
sense  somewhat,  not  to  miss  a  fine  effect  now  and 
then.  Consider  the  broadness  and  coarseness  in 
pleasantry,  that,  before  Pascal,  had  been  common, 
almost  universal,  in  controversy,  and  you  will  better 
understand  what  a  creative  touch  it  was  of  genius, 
of  feeling,  and  of  taste,  that  brought  into  literatur« 


126        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

the  far  more  than  Attic,  the  ineffable  Christian, 
purity  of  that  wit  and  humor  in  the  "  Provincial  Let- 
ters "  which  will  make  these  writings  live  as  long  vtB 
men  anywhere  continue  lo  read  the  productions  of 
past  ages.  Erasmus,  perhaps,  came  the  nearest  of 
all  modern  predecessors  to  anticipating  the  purified 
pleasantry  of  Pascal. 

It  will  be  interesting  and  instructive  to  see  Pascal's 
own  statement  of  his  reasons  for  adopting  the  ban- 
tering style  which  he  did  in  the  "  Provincial  Letters," 
as  well  as  of  the  sense  of  responsibilit}-  to  be  faithful 
and  fair,  under  which  he  wrote.     Pascal  says  :  — 

I  have  been  asked  why  I  employed  a  pleasant,  jocose,  and 
diverting  style.  I  reply  ...  I  thought  it  a  duty  to  write  so 
as  to  be  comprehended  by  women  and  men  of  the  world, 
that  they  might  know  the  danger  of  their  maxims  and  prop- 
ositions which  were  then  universally  propagated.  ...  I 
have  been  asked,  lastly,  if  I  myself  read  all  the  books  which 
I  quoted.  I  answer.  No.  If  I  had  done  so,  I  must  have 
passed  a  great  part  of  my  life  in  reading  very  bad  books; 
but  I  read  Escobar  twice  through,  and  I  employed  some  of 
my  friends  in  reading  the  others.  But  I  did  not  make  use 
of  a  single  passage  without  having  myself  read  it  in  the 
book  from  which  it  is  cited,  without  having  examined  the 
subject  of  which  it  treats,  and  without  having  read  what 
went  before  and  followed,  so  that  I  might  run  no  risk  of 
quoting  an  objection  as  an  answer,  which  would  have  been 
blameworthy  and  unfair. 

Of  the  wit  of  the  "  Provincial  Letters,"  their  wit 
and  their  controversial  effectiveness,  the  specimens 
given  will  have  afforded  readers  some  approximate 


Pascal,  127 

idea.  We  must  deny  ourselves  the  gratification  of 
presenting  a  l^rief  passage,  wliich  we  iiad  selected 
and  translated  for  the  purpose,  to  exemplify  from 
the  same  source  Pascal's  serious  eloquence.  It  was 
Voltaire  who  said  of  these  productions :  "  Moli^rc's 
best  comedies  do  not  excel  them  in  wit,  nor  the 
compositions  of  Bossuet  in  sublimity."  Something 
of  Bossuet's  sublimit}',  or  of  a  sublimity  perhaps 
finer  than  Bossuet's,  our  readers  will  discover  in 
titations  to  follow  from  the  "  Thoughts." 

Pascal's  "  Thoughts,"  the  printed  book,  has  a 
remarkable  history.  It  was  a  postluimous  pubUca- 
tion.  The  author  died,  leaving  behind  him  a  con- 
siderable number  of  detached  fragments  of  compo- 
sition, first  jottings  of  thought  on  a  subject  that  had 
long  occupied  his  mind.  These  precious  manuscripts 
were  almost  undecipherable.  The  writer  had  used 
for  his  purpose  any  chance  scrap  of  paper,  —  old 
wrapping,  for  example,  or  margin  of  letter,  —  that,  at 
the  critical  moment  of  happy  conception,  was  nearest 
his  hand.  Sentences,  words  even,  were  often  left 
unfinished.  There  was  no  coherence,  no  sequence, 
no  arrangement.  It  was,  however,  among  his  friends 
perfectly  well  understood  that  Pascal  for  years  had 
meditated  a  work  on  religion  designed  to  demon- 
strate the  truth  of  Christianity.  For  this  he  had 
been  thinking  arduousl}'.  Fortunately  he  had  even, 
in  a  memorable  conversation,  sketched  his  project 
at  some  length  to  his  Port  Royal  friends.  With  so 
much,  scarcely  more,  in  the  way  of  clew,  to  guid§ 


128        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

their  editorial  work,  these  friends  prepared  and 
issued  a  volume  of  Pascal's  "Thoughts,"  With 
the  most  loyal  intentions,  the  Port-Royalists  un- 
v.'isely  edited  too  much.  The}'  pieced  out  incom- 
pletenesses, they  provided  clauses  or  sentences  of 
connection,  they  toned  down  expressions  deemed 
too  bold,  they  improved  Pascal's  style !  After 
having  suffered  such  things  from  his  friends,  the 
posthumous  Pascal,  later,  fell  into  the  hands  of  an 
enemy.  The  infidel  Condorcet  published  an  edition 
of  the  "Thoughts."  Whereas  the  Port-Royalists 
had  suppressed  to  placate  the  Jesuits,  Condorcet 
suppressed  to  please  the  "  philosophers."  Between 
those  on  the  one  side,  and  these  on  the  other,  Pascal's 
"  Thoughts  "  had  experienced  what  might  well  have 
killed  any  production  of  the  human  mind  that  could 
die.  It  was  not  till  near  the  middle  of  the  present 
century  that  Cousin  called  the  attention  of  the 
world  to  the  fact  that  we  had  not  yet,  but  that 
we  still  might  have,  a  true  edition  of  Pascal's 
"Thoughts."  M.  Faug5re  took  the  hint,  and  con- 
sulting the  original  manuscripts,  preserved  in  the 
national  library  at  Paris,  i)roduced,  with  infinite 
editorial  labor,  almost  tv.o  hundred  j^ears  after  the 
thinker's  death,  the  first  satisfactory  edition  of  Pas- 
cal's "Thoughts."  Since  Faug('^re.  M.  Havet  has 
also  published  an  edition  of  Pascal's  works  entire, 
by  him  now  first  adequately  annotated  and  explained. 
The  arrangement  of  the  "Thoughts"  varies  in 
order,  according  to  the  varying  judgment  of  editors 


Pascal  129 

We  use,  for  our  extracts,  a  current  translation,  which 
we  modify  at  our  discretion,  by  comparison  of  the 
original  text  as  given  in  M.  Havet's  elaborate  work. 
Our  first  extract  is  a  passage  in  which  the  writer 
supposes  a  sceptic  of  the  more  shallow,  trifling  sort, 
to  speak.  This  sceptic  represents  hi^  own  state  of 
mind  in  the  following  strain  as  of  soliloquy  : — 

'  I  do  not  know  who  put  nie  into  the  world,  nor  what  the 
world  is,  nor  what  I  am  myself.  I  am  in  a  frightful  igno- 
rance of  all  things.  I  do  not  know  what  my  body  is,  what 
my  senses  are,  what  my  soul  is,  and  that  very  part  of  me 
which  thinks  what  I  am  saying,  which  reflects  upon  every 
thing  and  upon  itself,  and  is  no  better  acquainted  with  itself 
than  with  any  thing  else.  I  see  these  appalling  spaces  of 
the  universe  which  enclose  me,  and  I  find  myself  tethered 
in  one  corner  of  this  immense  expansion  without  knowing 
why  I  am  stationed  in  this  place  rather  than  in  another,  or 
why  this  moment  of  time  which  is  given  me  to  live  is  as- 
signed me  at  this  point  rather  than  at  another  of  the  whole 
eternity  that  has  iireceded  me,  and  of  that  which  is  to  fol- 
low me. 

'  I  see  nothing  but  infinities  on  every  side,  which  enclose 
me  like  an  atom,  and  like  a  shadow  which  endures  but  for 
an  instant,  and  returns  no  more. 

'  All  that  I  know,  is  that  I  am  soon  to  die;  but  what  I  am 
most  ignorant  of,  is  that  very  death  which  I  am  unable  to 
avoid. 

*  As  I  know  not  whence  I  came,  so  I  know  not  whither  I 
go;  and  I  know  only,  that  in  leaving  this  world  I  fall  for- 
ever either  into  nothingness  or  into  the  hands  of  an  angry 
God,  without  knowing  which  of  these  two  conditions  is  to 
be  eternally  my  lot.  Such  is  my  state,  —  full  of  misery,  of 
weakness,  and  of  uncertainty. 

'  And  from  all  this  I  conclude,  that  I  ought  to  pass  all  the 


130        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

days  of  my  life  without  a  tliought  of  trying  to  learn  what 
is  to  befall  me  hereafter.  Perhaps  in  my  doubts  I  might 
find  some  enlightenment;  but  1  am  imwilling  to  take  the 
trouble,  or  go  a  single  step  in  search  of  it;  and,  treating 
with  contempt  tlios'e  who  perplex  themselves  with  such 
solicitude,  my  purpose  is  to  go  forward  without  forethought 
and  without  fear  to  try  the  great  event,  and  passively  to 
approach  death  in  uncertainty  of  the  eternity  of  my  future 
condition.' 

Who  would  desire  to  have  for  a  friend  a  man  who  dis- 
courses in  this  manner  ?  Who  would  select  such  a  one  for 
the  confidant  of  his  affairs  ?  Who  would  have  recourse  to 
such  a  one  in  his  afflictions  ?  And,  in  fine,  for  what  use  of 
life  could  such  a  man  be  destined  ? 


The  central  thought  on  which  the  projected  apolo- 
getic of  Pascal  was  to  revolve  as  on  a  pivot,  is  the 
contrasted  greatness  and  wretchedness  of  man,  — 
with  Divine  Revelation,  in  its  doctrine  of  a  fall  on 
man's  part  from  original  nobleness,  supplying  the 
needed  link,  and  the  only  link  conceivable,  of  expla- 
nation, to  unite  the  one  with  the  other,  the  human 
greatness  with  the  human  wretchedness.  This  con- 
trast of  dignity  and  disgrace  should  constantly  be 
in  the  mind  of  the  reader  of  the  "Thoughts"  of 
Pascal.  It  will  often  be  found  to  throw  a  very 
necessary  light  upon  the  meaning  of  the  separate 
fragments  that  make  up  the  series. 

We  now  present  a  brief  fragment  asserting,  with 
vivid  metaphor,  at  the  same  time  the  fragility  of 
man's  frame  and  the  majesty  of  man's  nature. 
This  is  a  very  famous  Thought :  — 


Pascal  131 

Man  is  but  a  reed,  the  weakest  in  nature,  but  he  is  a 
thinking  reed.  It  is  not  necessary  that  the  entire  universe 
arm  itself  to  crush  him.  An  exhalation,  a  drop  of  water, 
suffices  to  kill  him.  But  were  the  universe  to  crush  him, 
man  would  still  be  more  noble  than  that  which  kills  him, 
because  he  knows  that  he  is  dying,  and  knows  the  advantage 
that  the  universe  has  over  him.  The  universe  knows 
nothing  of  it. 

Oiu:  whole  dignity  consists,  then,  in  thought. 

One  is  reminded  of  the  memorable  saying  of  a 
celebrated  philosopher:  ''In  the  universe  there  is 
nothing  great  but  man ;  in  man  there  is  nothing 
great  but  mind." 

What  a  sudden,  almost  ludicrous,  reduction  in 
scale,  the  greatness  of  Caesar,  as  conqueroi,  is  made 
to  suffer  when  looked  at  in  the  way  in  which  Pascal 
asks  you  to  look  at  it  in  the  following  Thought ! 
(Remember  that  Caesar,  when  he  bega^  fighting  for 
universal  empire,  was  fifty-one  years  of  age  :)  — 

Caesar  was  too  old,  it  seems  to  me,  to  amuse  himself  with 
conquering  the  world.  This  amusement  was  well  enough 
for  Augustus  or  Alexander  ;  they  were  young  people,  whom 
it  is  ditticult  to  stop  ;  but  Csesar  ought  to  have  been  more 
mature. 

That  is  f.s  if  you  should  reverse  the  tube  of  your 
telescope,  with  the  result  of  seeing  the  object  ob- 
served made  smaller  instead  of  larger. 

The  following  sentence  might  be  a  Maxim  of 
La  Rochefoucauld.  Pascal  was,  no  doubt,  a  debtor 
to  him  as  well  as  to  Montaigne  :  — 


132       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

I  lay  it  down  as  a  fact,  that,  if  all  men  knew  what  others 
say  of  them,  there  would  not  be  four  friends  in  the  world. 

Here  is  one  of  the  most  current  of  Pascal's  say- 
ings :  — 

Rivers  are  highways  that  move  on  and  bear  us  whither 
we  wish  to  go. 

The  following  "Thought"  condenses  the  sub- 
stance of  the  book  proposed,  into  three  short  sen- 
tences :  — 

The  knowledge  of  God  without  that  of  our  misery  produces 
pride.  The  knowledge  of  our  misery  without  that  of  God 
gives  despair.  The  knowledge  of  Jesus  Christ  is  intermedi- 
ate, because  therein  we  find  God  and  our  misery. 

The  prevalent  seeming  severity  and  intellectual 
coldness  of  Pascal's  "  Thoughts  "  yield  to  a  touch 
from  the  hea*t,  and  become  pathetic,  in  such  utter- 
ances as  the  following,  supposed  to  be  addressed  by 
the  Saviour  to  the  penitent  seeking  to  be  saved  :  — 

Console  thyself  ;  thou  wouldst  not  seek  me  if  thou  hadst 
not  found  me. 

I  thought  on  thee  in  my  agony  ;  such  drops  of  blood  I 
shed  for  thee. 

It  is  austerity  again,  but  not  unjust  austerity,  that 
speaks  as  follows  :  — 

Religion  is  a  thing  so  great  that  those  who  would  not  take 
the  pains  to  seek  it  if  it  is  obscure,  should  be  deprived  of  it. 
What  do  they  complain  of,  then,  if  it  is  such  that  they  could 
find  it  by  seeking  it  ? 


Pascal.  183 

But  we  must  take  our  leave  of  Pascal.  His  was 
a  suffering  as  well  as  an  aspiring  spirit.  He  suf- 
fered because  he  aspired.  But,  at  least,  he  did  not 
suffer  long.  He  aspired  himself  "quickly  away. 
Toward  the  last  he  wrought  at  a  problem  in  his  first 
favorite  study,  that  of  mathematics,  and  left  behind 
him,  as  a  memorial  of  his  later  life,  a  remarkable 
result  of  investigation  on  the  curve  called  the  cycloid. 
During  his  final  illness  he  pierced  himself  through 
with  many  sorrows,  —  unnecessary  sorrows,  sorrows^ 
too,  that  bore  a  double  edge,  hurting  not  only  him, 
but  also  his  kindred,  —  in  practising,  from  mistaken 
religious  motives,  a  hard  repiessiou  upon  iiis  natunil 
instinct  to  love,  and  to  welcome  love.  He  thought 
that  God  should  be  all,  the  creature  nothing.  The 
thought  was  half  true,  but  it  was  half  false.  God 
should,  indeed,  be  all.  But,  iu  God,  the  creature 
also  should  be  something. 

In  French  history,  —  we  may  say,  in  the  history  of 
the  world,  —  if  there  are  few  brighter,  there  also  are 
few  purer,  fames  than  the  fame  of  Pascal. 


134      Classic  French  Course  in  English. 
IX. 

MADAME  DE   SEVIGNil. 
1626-1696. 

Of  Madame  de  S4vign6,  if  it  were  permitted  here 
to  make  a  pun  and  a  paradox,  one  raiglit  justly  and 
descriptively  say  that  she  was  not  a  woman  of  letters, 
but  only  a  woman  of  —  letters.  For  Madame  de 
S6vign6's  addiction  to  literature  was  not  at  all  that 
of  an  author  by  profession.  She  simply  wrote  ad- 
mirable private  letters,  in  great  profusion,  and 
became  famous  thereby. 

Madame  de  S6vign6's  fame  is  partly  her  merit, 
but  it  is  also  partly  her  good  fortune.  8 he  was 
rightly  placed  to  be  what  she  was.  This  will  appear 
from  a  sketch  of  her  life,  and  still  more  from  speci- 
mens to  be  exhibited  of  her  own  epistolary  writing. 

Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal  was  her  maiden  name. 
She  was  born  a  baroness.  She  was  married,  young, 
a  marchioness.  First  early  left  an  orphan,  she  was 
afterward  early  left  a  widow,  —  not  too  early,  how- 
ever, to  have  become  the  mother  of  two  children, 
a  son  and  a  daughter.  The  daughter  grew  to  be  the 
life-long  idol  of  the  widowed  mother's  heart.  The 
letters  she  wrote  to  this  daughter,  married,  and  living 
remote  from  her,  compose  the  greater  part  of  that 
voluminous  epistolary  production  by  which  Madame 


Madame  de  SSvignS.  135 

do  Sevign6  become,  without  her  ever  aiming  at  such 
a  result,  or  probably  ever  thinking  of  it,  one  of  the 
classics  of  the  French  language. 

]Madame  de  S6vign6  was  wealthy  as  orphan 
heiress,  and  she  should  have  been  Wealthy  as  widow. 
But  her  husband  was  profligate,  and  he  wasted  her 
substance.  She  turned  out  to  be  a  thoroughly 
capable  woman  of  affairs  who  managed  her  property 
well.  During  her  long  and  stainless  widowhood — • 
her  husband  fell  in  a  shameful  duel  when  she  was 
but  twenty-five  years  old,  and  she  lived  to  be 
seventy  —  she  divided  her  time  between  her  estate. 
The  Rocl«s,  in  Brittany,  and  her  residence  in  Paris. 
This  period  was  all  embraced  within  the  protracted 
reign  of  Louis  XI Y.,  perhaps,  upon  the  whole,  the 
most  memorable  age  in  the  histor}'  of  France. 

Beautiful,  and,  if  not  brilliantly  beautiful,  at 
least  brilliantly  witty,  INIadame  de  S^vigne  was 
virtuous  —  in  that  chief  sense  of  feminine  virtue  -^ 
amid  an  almost  universal  empire  of  profligacy  around 
her.  Her  social  advantages  were  unsurpassed,  and 
her  social  success  was  equal  to  her  advantages.  She 
had  the  woman  courtier's  supreme  triumph  in  being 
once  led  out  to  dance  by  the  king  —  her  own  junior 
by  a  dozen  years  —  no  vulgar  king,  remember,  but 
the  ''  great "  Louis  XIV.  Her  cynical  cousin,  himself 
a  writer  of  power,  who  had  been  repulsed  in  dishon- 
orable proffers  of  love  by  the  young  marchioness 
during  the  lifetime  of  her  husband,  — we  mean  Count 
Bussy,  —  says,  in  a  scurrilous  work  of  his,  that  Ma* 


186        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

dame  de  Scjvigne  remarked,  ou  returuing  to  her  seat 
after  her  dancing-bout  with  the  king,  tliat  Louis  pos- 
sessed great  qualities,  and  would  certainl}-  obscure 
the  lustre  of  all  his  predecessors.  "  I  could  not 
help  laughing  in  her  face,"  the  ungallant  cousin 
declared,  "  seeing  what  had  produced  this  pane- 
gyric." Probably,  indeed,  the  young  woman  w.xa 
pleased.  But,  whatever  may  have  been  her  faults 
or  her  follies,  nothing  can  rob  Madame  de  86vign6 
of  the  glorj'  that  is  hers,  in  having  been  strong 
enough  in  womanly  and  motherly  honor  to  preserve, 
against  many  dazzling  temptations,  amid  general 
bad  example,  and  even  under  malignant  a»i:)ersions, 
a  chaste  and  spotless  name.  When  it  is  added,  that, 
besides  access  to  the  royal  court  itselt,  this  gifted 
woman  enjoyed  the  familiar  acquaintance  of  La 
Rochefoucauld  and  other  high-bred  wits,  less  famous, 
not  a  few,  enough  will  have  been  said  to  show 
t&at  her  position  was  such  as  to  give  her  talent  its 
best  possible  chance.  The  French  history  of  the. 
times  of  Louis  XIV.  is  hinted  in  glimpses  the  most 
vivid  and  the  most  suggestive,  throughout  the  whole 
series  of  the  letters. 

We  owe  it  to  our  readers  (and  to  Madame  de 
Sevign6  no  less)  first  of  all  to  let  them  see  a  speci- 
men o'  the  affectionate  adulation  that  this  French 
woman  of  rank  and  of  fashion,  literally  in  almost 
every  letter  of  hers,  effuses  on  her  daughter,  —  a 
daughter  who,  by  the  way,  seems  very  languidly  to 
have  responded  to  such  demonstrations  :  — 


Madame  de  SSvignS.  137 

The  Rocks,  Sunday,  June  28, 1671. 

Tou  have  amply  made  up  to  me  my  late  losses  ;  I  hava 
received  two  letters  from  you  which  have  filled  me  with 
transports  of  joy.  The  pleasure  I  take  in  reading  them  is 
beyond  all  imagination.  If  I  have  in  any  way  contributed 
to  the  improvement  of  your  style  I  did  it  in  the  thought  that 
I  was  laboring  for  the  pleasure  of  others,  not  for  my  own. 
But  Providence,  who  has  seen  fit  to  separate  us  so  often, 
and  to  place  us  at  such  immense  distances  from  each  other, 
has  repaid  me  a  little  for  the  privation  in  the  charms  of 
your  correspondence,  and  still  more  in  the  satisfaction  you 
express  in  your  situation,  an.l  the  beauty  of  your  castle;  you 
represent  it  to  me  with  an  air  of  grandeur  and  magnificence 
that  enchants  me.  I  once  saw  a  similar  account  of  it  by 
the  first  Madame  de  Grignan;  but  I  little  thought  at  that 
time,  that  all  these  beauties  were  one  day  to  be  at  your 
command.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  having 
given  me  so  particular  an  account  of  it.  If  I  could  be  tired 
in  reading  your  letters,  it  would  not  only  betray  a  very 
bad  taste  in  me,  but  would  likewise  show  that  I  could 
have  very  little  love  or  friendship  for  you.  Divest  yourself 
of  the  dislike  you  have  taken  to  circumstantial  details. 
I  have  often  told  you,  and  you  ought  yourself  to  feel  the 
truth  of  this  remark,  that  they  are  as  dear  to  us  from  those 
we  love,  as  they  are  tedious  and  disagreeable  from  others. 
If  they  are  displeasing  to  us,  it  is  only  from  the  ihditference 
we  feel  for  those  who  write  them.  Admitting  this  observa- 
tion to  be  true,  I  leave  you  to  judge  what  pleasure  yours 
afford  me.  It  is  a  fine  thing,  truly,  to  play  the  great  lady, 
as  you  do  at  present. 

Conceive  the  foregoing  multiplied  by  the  whole 
number  of  the  separate  letters  composing  the  cor- 
respondence, and  you  will  have  no  exaggerated  idea 
of  the  display  that  Madame  de  S^vignc  makes  of  bar 
10 


138       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

regard  for  her  daughter.  This  regard  was  a  passion, 
morbid,  no  doubt,  by  excess,  and,  even  at  that,  ex- 
travagantly demonstrated  ;  but  it  was  fundamentally 
sincere.  Madame  de  86vigne  idealized  her  absent 
daughter,  and  literally  '•  loved  but  only  her."  We 
need  not  wliolly  admire  such  maternal  affection. 
But  we  should  not  criticise  it  too  severely. 

We  choose  next  a  marvellously  vivid  "  instanta- 
neous view,"  in  words,  of  a  court  afternoon  and 
evening  at  Versailles.  This  letter,  too,  is  addressed 
to  the  daughter —  Madame  de  Grignan,  by  her  mar- 
ried name.  It  bears  date,  "  Paris,  Wednesday, 
29th  July."  The  year  is  1676,  and  the  writer  is 
just  fifty :  — 

I  was  at  Versailles  last  Saturday  with  the  Villarses.  ... 
At  three  the  king,  the  queen,  Monsieur  [eldest  brother  to  the 
king],  Madame  [that  brother's  wife],  Mademoiselle  [that 
brother's  eldest  unmarried  daughter],  and  every  thing  else 
which  is  royal,  together  with  Madame  de  Montespan  |the 
celebrated  mistress  of  the  king]  and  train,  and  all  the 
courtiers,  and  all  the  ladies, — all,  in  short,  which  consti- 
tutes the  court  of  France,  is  assembled  in  the  beautiful 
apartment  of  the  king's,  which  you  remember.  All  is  fur- 
nished divinely,  all  is  magnificent.  Such  a  thing  as  heat  is 
unknown  ;  you  pass  from  one  place  to  another  without  the 
slightest  pressure.  A  game  at  reversis  [the  description  is  of 
a  gambling  scene,  in  which  Dangeau  figures  as  a  cool  and 
skilful  gamester]  gives  the  company  a  form  and  a  settlement. 
The  king  and  Madame  de  Montespan  keep  a  bank  together  ; 
different  tables  are  occupied  by  Monsieur,  the  queen,  and 
Madame  de  Soubise,  Dangeau  and  party,  Langlee  and  party. 
Everywhere  you  see  heaps  of  louis  d'ors  ;  they  have  no  other 


Madame  de  SSvign^.         ■  139 

counters.  I  saw  Dangeau  play,  and  thought  what  fools  we 
all  were  beside  him.  He  dreams  of  nothing  but  what  con- 
cerns the  game  ;  he  wins  where  others  lose  ;  he  neglects 
iioLhlng,  profits  by  every  thing,  never  has  his  attention 
diverte.l  ;  i:i  short,  his  science  bids  defiance  to  chance.  Two 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  ten  days,  a  hundred  thousand 
crowns  in  a  month,  these  are  the  pretty  memorandums  he 
puts  down  in  liis  pocliet-book.  He  was  kind  enough  to  say 
lh.it  I  was  partners  witli  him,  so  that  I  got  an  excellent  seat. 
I  made  my  obeisance  to  the  king,  as  you  told  me  ;  and  he 
returned  it  as  if  I  had  been  yoimg  and  handsome.  .  .  .  The 
dake  said  a  thousand  kind  things  without  minding  a  word 
he  uttered.  Marslial  dc  Lorges  attacked  me  in  the  name  of 
the  Chevalier  de  Grignan  ;  in  short,  tutti  qiiunti  [the  whole 
company].  You  know  what  it  is  to  get  a  word  from  every- 
body you  meet.  Madame  de  Montespan  talked  to  me  of 
Bourbon,  and  asked  me  how  I  liked  Yichi,  and  whether  the 
place  did  me  good.  She  said  that  Bourbon,  instead  of  curing 
a  pain  in  one  of  her  knees,  injured  both.  .  .  .  Her  size 
is  reduced  by  a  good  half,  and  yet  her  complexion,  her  eyes, 
and  her  lips,  are  as  fine  as  ever.  She  was  dressed  all  in 
French  point,  her  hair  in  a  thousand  ringlets,  the  two  side 
ones  hanging  low  on  her  cheeks,  black  ribbons  on  her  head, 
pearls  (the  same  that  belongetl  to  Madame  del'Hopital),  the 
loveliest  diamond  earrings,  three  or  four  bodkins  —  nothing 
else  on  the  head  ;  in  short,  a  triiunphant  beauty,  worthy  the 
admiration  of  all  the  foreign  ambassadors.  She  was  accused 
of  preventing  the  whole  French  nation  from  seeing  the  king  ; 
she  has  restored  him,  you  see,  to  their  eyes  ;  and  you  cannot 
conceive  the  joy  it  has  given  all  the  world,  and  the  splendor 
it  has  thrown  upon  the  court.  This  charming  confusion, 
without  confusion,  of  all  which  is  the  most  select,  continues 
from  three  till  six.  If  couriers  arrive,  the  king  retires  a 
moment  to  read  the  despatches,  and  returns.  There  is 
always  some  music  going  on,  to  which  he  listens,  and  which 
has  an  excellent  effect.     He  talks  with  such  of  the  ladies  as 


140       Classic  French  Course  in   English. 

are  accustomed  to  enjoy  that  honor.  ...  At  six  the  car- 
riages are  at  the  door.  The  king  is  in  one  of  thera  with 
Madame  de  Montespan,  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Tliianges, 
and  honest  d'Heudicourt  in  a  fool's  paradise  on  tlie  stool. 
You  know  how  these  open  carriages  are  made  ;  they  do  not 
sit  face  to  face,  but  all  looking  the  same  way.  The  queen 
occupies  another  with  the  princess  ;  and  the  rest  come  flock- 
ing after,  as  it  may  happen.  There  are  then  gondolas  on 
the  canal,  and  music  ;  and  at  ten  they  come  back,  and  then 
there  is  a  play  ;  and  twelve  strikes,  and  they  go  to  supper  ; 
and  thus  rolls  round  the  Saturday.  If  I  were  to  tell  you 
how  often  you  were  asked  after,  how  many  questions  were 
put  to  me  without  waiting  for  answers,  how  often  I  neg- 
lected to  answer,  how  little  they  cared,  and  how  much  less 
I  did,  you  would  see  the  Inajna  corle  [wicked  court]  before 
you  in  all  its  perfection.  However,  it  never  was  so  pleasant 
before,  and  everybody  wishes  it  may  last. 

There  is  j^our  picture.  Picture,  pure  and  simple, 
it  is  —  comment  none,  least  of  all,  moralizing  com- 
ment. The  wish  is  sighed  by  ''•everybody,"  that 
such  pleasant  things  may  ''  last."  Well,  they  did 
last  the  writer's  time.  But  meanw^hile  the  French 
revolution  was  a-prei)aring.  A  hundred  years  later 
it  will  come,  with  its  terrible  reprisals. 

We  have  gone  away  from  the  usual  translations 
to  find  the  foregoing  extract  in  an  article  published 
forty  years  ago  and  more,  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Re- 
view." Again  we  draw  from  the  same  source  — 
this  time,  the  description  of  a  visit  paid  by  a  com- 
pany of  grand  folks,  of  w  bora  the  writer  of  the  letter 
was  one,  to  an  iron-foundery  :  — 


Madame  de  S4vig7iS.  141 

Friday,  1st  Oct.  (1G77). 
Yesterday  evening  at  Cone,  we  descended  into  a  veritable 
hell,  the  true  forges  of  Vulcan.  Eight  or  ten  Cyclops  were 
at  work,  forging,  not  arms  for  ^neas,  but  anchors  for  ships. 
You  never  saw  strokes  redoubled  so  justly,  nor  with  so 
a  Jniirabie  a  cadence.  We  stood  in  the  middle  of  four  fur- 
naces ;  and  the  demons  came  passing  about  us,  all  melting 
in  sweat,  with  pale  faces,  wild-staring  eyes,  savage  mus- 
taches, and  h.iir  long  and  black,  —  a  sight  enough  to  frighten 
less  well-bre  1  folks  than  ourselves.  As  for  me,  1  could  not 
comprehend  the  possibility  of  refusing  any  thing  which  these 
gentlemen,  in  their  hell,  might  have  chosen  to  exact.  We 
got  out  at  last,  by  the  help  of  a  shower  of  silver,  with  which 
we  took  care  to  refresh  their  souls,  and  facilitate  our  exit. 

Once  more  :  — 

Paris,  29th  November  (1679). 

I  have  been  to  the  wedding  of  Madame  de  Louvois.  How 
shall  1  describe  it  ?  Magnificence,  illuminations,  all  France, 
dresses  all  gold  and  brocade,  jewels,  braziers  fidl  of  fire,  and 
stands  full  of  flowers,  confusions  of  carriages,  cries  out  of 
doors,  lighted  torches,  pushings  back,  people  run  over;  in 
short,  a  whirlwind,  a  distraction  ;  questions  without  an- 
swers, compliments  without  knowing  what  is  said,  civilities 
without  knowing  who  is  spoken  to,  feet  entangled  in  trains. 
From  the  midst  of  all  this,  issue  inquiries  after  your  health, 
which  not  being  answered  as  quick  as  lightning,  the 
inquirers  pass  on,  contented  to  remain  in  the  state  of  igno- 
rance and  indifference  in  which  they  [the  inquiries]  were 
made.  O  vanity  of  vanities  !  Pretty  little  De  Mouchy  has 
had  the  small-pox.     O  vanity,  et  cajtera  ! 

Yet  again.  The  gay  writer  has  been  sobered, 
perhaps  hurt,  by  a  friend's  frankly  writing  to  her, 
*'  You  are  old."     To  her  daughter :  — 


i 


142       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

So  you  were  struck  witli  the  expression  of  Madame  de  la 
Fayette,  blended  with  so  much  friendship.  'Twas  a  truth, 
I  own,  which  1  ought  to  have  borne  in  mind;  and  yet  1 
must  confess  it  astonished  me,  for  I  do  not  yet  perceive  in 
myself  any  such  decay.  Nevertheless,  I  cannot  help  making 
many  reflections  and  calculations,  and  I  find  the  conditions 
of  life  hard  enough.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been 
dragged,  against  my  will,  to  the  fatal  period  when  old  age 
must  be  endured  ;  I  see  it  ;  I  have  come  to  it  ;  and  I 
would  fain,  if  1  could  help  it,  not  go  any  farther  ;  nut  ad- 
vance a  step  more  in  the  road  of  infirmities,  of  pains,  of 
losses  of  memory,  of  diHfi(juremenlH  ready  to  do  me  outrage; 
and  I  hear  a  voice  which  says,  "  You  must  go  on  in  spite  of 
yourself;  or,  if  you  will  not  go  on,  you  must  die;"  and 
this  is  another  extremity  from  which  nature  revolts.  Such 
is  the  lot.  however,  of  all  who  advance  beyond  middle  life. 
Wliat  is  their  resource  ?  To  think  of  the  will  of  God  and 
of  universal  law,  and  so  restore  reason  to  its  place,  !)nd  be 
patient.  Be  you,  then,  patient  accordingly,  my  dear  child, 
and  let  not  your  affection  soften  into  such  tears  as  reason 
must  condemn. 

She  dates  a  letter,  and  recalls  that  the  day  was 
the  anniversary  of  an  event  in  lier  life  :  — 

Paris,  Friday,  Feb.  5, 1672. 
This  day  thousand  years  I  was  married. 

Here  is  a  passage  with  power  in  it.  The  great  war 
minister  of  Louis  has  died.  Madame  de  S^vign^ 
was  now  sixty-five  years  old.  The  letter  is  to  her 
cousin  Coulanges :  — 

I  am  so  astonished  at  the  news  of  the  sudden  death  of  M. 
de  Louvois,  that  I  am  at  a  loss  how  to  speak  of  it.  Dead, 
however,  he  is,  this  great  minister,  this  potent  being,  who 


Madame  de  SSvignS.  143 

occupied  so  great  a  place;  whose  me  (le  moi),  as  M.  Xicole 
says,  had  so  wide  a  dominion;  who  was  the  centre  of  so 
many  orbs.  What  affairs  had  he  not  to  manage!  what 
designs,  what  projects,  what  secrets!  wliat  interests  to 
unravel,  wliat  wars  to  undertake,  what  intrigues,  what 
noble  games  at  chess  to  play  and  to  direct!  Ah!  my  God, 
grant  me  a  little  time;  I  want  to  give  check  to  the  Duke  of 
Savoy  —  checkmate  to  the  Prince  of  Orange.  No,  no,  you 
&*iall  not  have  a  moment,  not  a  single  moment.  Are  events 
like  these  to  be  talked  of?  Not  they.  We  must  reflect 
upon  them  in  our  closets. 

A  glimpse  of  Bourdaloue  :  — 

Ah,  that  Bourdaloue!  his  sermon  on  the  Passion  was,' 
they  say,  the  most  perfect  thing  of  the  kind  that  can  be 
imagined;  it  was  the  same  he  preached  last  year,  but 
revised  and  altered  with  the  assistance  of  some  of  his 
friends,  that  it  might  be  wholly  inimitable.  How  can  one 
love  God,  if  one  never  hears  him  properly  spoken  of  ?  You 
must  really  possess  a  greater  portion  of  grace  than  others. 

A  distinguished  caterer  or  steward,  a  gentleman 
described  as  possessing  talent  enough  to  have  gov- 
erned a  province,  commits  suicide  on  a  professional 
point  of  honor  :  — 

Paris,  Sunday,  April  26,  1671. 

I  have  just  learned  from  Moreuil,  of  what  passed  at  Chan- 
tilly  with  regard  to  poor  Vatel.  I  wrote  to  you  last  Friday 
that  he  had  stabbed  himself  —  these  are  the  particulars  of 
the  affair:  The  king  arrived  there  on  Thursday  night;  the 
walk,  and  the  collation,  which  was  served  in  a  place  set 
apart  for  the  purpose,  and  strewed  with  jonquils,  were  just 
as  they  should  be.  Supper  was  served;  but  there  was  no 
roast  meat  at  one  or  two  of  the  tables,  on  account  of  Yatel's 


144       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

having  been  obliged  to  provide  several  dinners  more  than 
were  expected.  This  affected  his  spirits;  and  he  was  heard 
to  say  several  times,  "  I  have  lost  my  honor!  I  cannot  bear 
this  disgrace!"  "My  head  is  quite  bewildered,''  said  he  to 
Gourville.  "  I  have  not  had  a  wink  of  sleep  these  twelve 
nights;  I  wish  you  would  assist  me  in  giving  orders." 
Gourville  did  all  he  could  to  comfort  and  assist  him,  but 
the  failure  of  the  roast  meat  (which,  however,  did  not 
happen  at  the  king's  table,  but  at  some  of  the  other  twenty- 
five)  was  always  uppermost  with  him.  Gourville  men- 
tioned it  to  the  prince  [Conde',  the  great  Cond^,  the  king's 
host],  who  went  directly  to  Vatel's  apartment,  and  said  to 
him,  "  Every  thing  is  extremely  well  conducted,  Vatel; 
nothing  could  be  more  admirable  than  his  Majesty's 
supper."  "Your  highness's  goodness,"  replied  he,  "over- 
whelms me;  I  am  sensible  that  there  was  a  deficiency  of 
roast  meat  at  two  tables."  "Not  at  all,"  said  the 
prince;  "do  not  perplex  yourself,  and  all  will  go  well." 
Midnight  came;  the  fireworks  did  not  succeed;  they  were 
covered  with  a  thick  cloud;  they  cost  sixteen  thousand 
francs.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Vatel  went  round 
and  found  everybody  asleep;  he  met  one  of  the  under- 
purveyors,  who  was  just  come  in  with  only  two  loads  of 
fish.  "What!"  said  he,  "is  this  all?"  "Yes,  sir," 
said  the  man,  not  knowing  that  Vatel  had  despatched  other 
people  to  all  the  seaports  around.  Vatel  waited  for  some 
time;  the  other  purveyors  did  not  arrive;  his  head  grew 
distracted;  he  thought  there  was  no  more  fish  to  be  had. 
He  flew  to  Gourville:  "Sir,"  said  lie,  "I  cannot  outlive 
this  disgrace."  Gourville  laughed  at  him.  Vatel,  however, 
went  to  his  apartment,  and  setting  the  hilt  of  his  sword 
against  the  door,  after  two  im'fTectual  attempts,  succeeded, 
in  the  third,  in  forcing  his  sword  through  his  heart.  At 
that  instant  the  couriers  arrived  with  the  fish;  Vatel  was 
inquired  after  to  distribute  it.  They  ran  to  his  apartment, 
knocked  at  the  door,  but  received  no  answer ;  upon  which 


Madame  de  SevignS.  145 

they  broke  it  open,  and  found  him  weltering  in  his  blood. 
A  messenger  was  immediately  despatched  to  acquaint  the 
prince  with  what  had  happened,  who  was  like  a  man  in 
despair.  The  Duke  wept,  for  his  Burgundy  journey  de- 
pended upon  Vatel. 

The  italics  liere  are  our  own.  We  felt  that  we 
must  use   them. 

Is  it  not  all  pathetic?  But  how  exquisitely 
characteristic  of  the  nation  and  of  the  times ! 
"PoorYatel,"  is  the  extent  to  which  Madame  de 
S6vign6  allows  herself  to  go  in  syrapath}'.  Her 
heart  never  bleeds  very  freely  —  for  anybody  except 
her  daughter.  Madame  de  Sevign^'s  heart,  indeed, 
we  grieve  to  fear,  was  somewhat  hard. 

In  another  letter,  after  a  long  strain  as  worldly 
as  any  one  could  wish  to  see,  this  lively  woman  thus 
touches,  with  a  sincerity  as  unquestionable  as  the 
levity  is,  on  the  point  of  personal  religion  :  — 

But,  my  dear  child,  the  greatest  inclination  I  have  at 
present  is  to  be  a  little  religious.  I  plague  La  Mousse 
about  it  every  day.  I  belong  neither  to  God  nor  to  the 
devil.  I  am  quite  weary  of  such  a  situation;  though, 
between  you  and  me,  I  look  upon  it  as  the  most  natural  one 
in  the  world.  I  am  not  the  devil's,  because  I  fear  God,  and 
have  at  the  bottom  a  principle  of  religion;  then,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  am  not  properly  God's,  because  his  law 
appears  hard  and  irksome  to  me,  and  I  cannot  bring  myself 
to  acts  of  self-denial ;  so  that  altogether  I  am  one  of  those 
called  lukewarm  Christians,  the  great  number  of  which  does 
not  in  the  least  surprise  me,  for  I  perfectly  understand  their 
sentiments,  and  the  reasons  that  influence  them.    However, 


146       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

we  are  told  that  this  is  a  state  highly  displeasing  to  God;  if 
so,  we  must  get  out  of  it.  Alas!  this  is  the  difficulty.  Was 
ever  any  thing  so  mad  as  I  am,  to  be  thus  eternally  pestering 
you  with  my  rhapsodies  ? 

Madame  de  86vign6  involuntarily  becomes  a 
maxim- maker :  — 

The  other  day  I  made  a  maxim  off-hand,  without  once 
thinking  of  it;  and  I  liked  it  so  well  that  I  fancied  I  had 
taken  it  out  of  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld's.  Pray  tell  me 
whether  it  is  so  or  not,  for  in  that  case  my  memory  is  more 
to  be  praised  than  my  judgment.  I  said,  with  all  the  ease 
in  the  world,  that  "  ingratitude  begets  reproach,  as  ac- 
knowledgment begets  new  favors."  Pray,  where  did  this 
come  from  ?  Have  I  read  it  ?  Did  1  dream  it  ?  Is  it  my 
own  idea  ?  Nothing  can  be  truer  than  the  thing  itself,  nor 
than  that  I  am  totally  ignorant  how  1  came  by  it.  I  found 
it  properly  arranged  In  my  brain,  and  at  the  end  of  my 
tongue. 

The  partial  mother  lets  her  daughter  know  whom 
the  maxim  was  meant  for.  She  says,  "It  is  in- 
tended for  your  brother."  This  young  fellow  had, 
we  suspect,  been  first  earning  bis  mother's  "re- 
proaches" for  spendthrift  habits,  and  then  getting 
more  money  from  her  b}'  "  acknowledgment." 

She  hears  that  son  of  hers  read  "some  chapters 
out  of  Rabelais,"  "which  were  enough,"  she  de- 
clares, "  to  make  us  die  with  laughing."  "  I  cannot 
affect,"  she  says,  "  a  prudery  which  is  not  natural 
to  me."  No,  indeed,  a  prude  this  woman  was  not. 
She  had  the  strong  aesthetic  stomach  of  her  time. 
It  is  queer  to  have  Rabelais  rubbing  cheek  and  jowl 


Madame  de  SSvign^.  147 

with  Nicole  ("We  are  going  to  begin  a  moral  treatise 
of  Nicole's  "),  a  severe  Port-Royalist,  iu  one  and  the 
same  letter.  But  this  is  French ;  above  all,  it  is 
Madame  de  S6vign6.  \\y  the  way,  she  and  her 
friends,  first  and  last,  "  die  "  a  thousand  jolly  deaths 
"  with  laughing." 

A  contemporary  alhisicn  to  "Tartuffe,"  with 
more  French  manners  iu)plied  :  — 

The  other  day  La  Biglesse  played  Tartuffe  to  the  life. 
Being  at  table,  she  happened  to  tell  a  fib  about  some  trifle  or 
other,  which  I  noticed,  an;!  told  her  of  it  ;  she  cast  her  eyes 
to  the  ground,  and  with  a  very  demure  air,  "  Yes,  indeed, 
madam,"  said  she,  "  I  am  the  greatest  liar  in  the  world  ;  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you  for  telling  me  of  it."  We  all 
burst  out  a-laughing,  for  it  was  exactly  the  tone  of  Tartuffe, — 
"  Yes,  brother.  I  am  a  wretch,  a  vessel  of  iniquity." 

INI.  de  La  Rochefoucauld  appears  often  by  name 
in  the  letters.  Here  he  appears  anonymously  by 
his  effect :  — 

"  Warm  affections  are  never  tranquil "  ;  a  maxim. 

Not  a  ver}'  sapid  bit  of  gnomic  wisdom,  certainly. 
We  must  immediately  make  up  to  our  readers,  on 
Madame  de  S^vign^'s  behalf,  for  the  insipidity  of  the 
foregoing  "  maxim  "  of  hers,  by  giving  here  two  or 
three  far  more  sententious  excerpts  from  the  letters, 
excerpts  collected  by  another :  — 

There  may  be  so  great  a  weight  of  obligation  that  there  is 
no  way  of  being  delivered  from  it  but  by  ingratitude. 

Long  sicknesses  wear  out  grief,  and  long  hopes  wear  out 
joy. 


o 


148       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Shadow  is  never  long  taken  for  substance  ;  you  must  be, 
if  you  would  appear  to  be.     The  world  is  not  unjust  long. 

Madame  de  S6vign6  makes  a  confession,  which 
will  comfort  readers  who  ma}'  have  experienced  the 
same  difficulty  as  that  of  which  she  speaks  :  — 

I  send  you  M.  de  Rochefoucauld's  "  Maxims,"  revised  and 
corrected,  with  additions  ;  it  is  a  present  to  you  from  him- 
self. Some  of  them  I  can  make  shift  to  guess  the  meaning 
of  ;  but  there  are  others  that,  to  my  shame  be  it  spoken,  I 
cannot  understand  at  all.  God  knows  how  it  will  be  with 
you. 

What  was  it  changed  this  woman's  mood  to  seri- 
ous? She  could  not  have  been  hearing  Massillon's 
celebrated  sermon  on  the  "  fewness  of  the  elect,"  for 
Massillon  was  yet  only  a  boy  of  nine  j'cars  ;  she  may 
have  been  reading  Pascal's  ''Thoughts,"  —  Pascal 
had  been  dead  ten  years,  and  the  "  Thoughts  "  had 
been  published  ;  or  she  may  have  been  listening  to 
one  of  those  sifting,  heart-searching  discourses  of 
Bourdaloue,  —  the  date  of  her  letter  is  March  16, 
1672,  and  during  the  Lent  of  that  year  Bourdaloue 
preached  at  Versailles,  —  when  she  wrote  sombrely  as 
follows :  — 

You  ask  me  if  I  am  as  fond  of  life  as  ever.  I  must  own 
to  you  that  I  experience  mortifications,  and  severe  ones  too  ; 
but  I  am  still  unhappy  at  the  thoughts  of  death  ;  I  consider 
it  so  great  a  misfortune  to  see  the  termination  of  all  my 
pursuits,  that  I  should  desire  nothing  better,  if  it  were  prac- 
ticable, than  to  begin  life  again.  I  find  myself  engaged  in  a 
scene  of  confusion  and  trouble  ;  I  was  embarked  in  life  with- 


Madame  de  S4vignS.  149 

out  my  own  consent,  and  know  I  must  leave  it  again  ;  tliis 
distracts  me,  for  bow  shall  I  leave  it  ?  In  what  manner  ? 
By  what  door  ?  At  what  time  ?  In  what  disposition  ?  Am 
1  to  suffer  a  thousand  pains  and  torments  that  will  make  me 
die  in  a  state  of  despair  ?  Shall  I  lose  my  senses  ?  Am  I  to 
die  by  some  sudden  accident  ?  How  shall  I  stand  with  God  ? 
What  shall  I  have  to  offer  to  him  ?  Will  fear  and  necessity 
make  my  peace  with  him  ?  Shall  I  have  no  other  sentiment 
but  that  of  fear  ?  What  have  I  to  hope  ?  Am  I  worthy  of 
heaven  ?  Or  have  I  deserved  the  torments  of  hell  ?  Dread- 
ful alternative  !  Alarming  uncertainty  !  Can  there  be 
greater  madness  than  to  place  our  eternal  salvation  in  un- 
certainty ?  Yet  what  is  more  natural,  or  can  be  more  easily 
accounted  for,  than  the  foolish  manner  in  which  I  have  spent 
my  life  ?  I  am  frequently  buried  in  thoughts  of  this  nature, 
and  then  death  appears  so  dreadful  to  me  that  I  hate  life 
more  for  leading  me  to  it,  than  I  do  for  all  the  thorns  that 
are  strewed  in  its  way.  You  will  ask  me,  then,  if  1  would 
wish  to  live  forever  ?  Far  from  it ;  but,  if  I  had  been  con- 
sulted, I  would  very  gladly  have  died  in  my  nurse's  arms  ;  it 
would  have  spared  me  many  vexations,  and  would  have  in- 
sured heaven  to  me  at  a  very  easy  rate  ;  but  let  us  talk  of 
something  else. 

A  memorable  sarcasm  saved  for  us  by  Madame  de 
S6vlgn6,  at  the  ver}-  close  of  one  of  her  letters  :  — 

Guillenagues  said  yesterday  that  Pehsson  abused  the  priv- 
ilege men  have  of  being  ugly. 

Readers  familiar  with  Dickens's  "  Tale  of  Two 
Cities,"  will  recognize  in  the  following  narrative  a 
state  of  society  not  unlike  that  described  by  the 
novelist  as  immediately  preceding  the  French  Rev- 
olution :  — 


150       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

The  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  as  he  returned  yesterday  from 
St.  Germain,  met  with  a  curious  ad  venture.  He  drove  at  his 
usual  rate,  like  a  whirlwind.  If  he  thinks  himself  a  great 
man,  his  servants  think  him  still  greater.  They  passed 
through  Nanterre,  when  they  met  a  man  on  horseback,  and 
in  an  insoli-nt  tone  bid  him  clear  the  way.  The  poor  man 
used  his  utmost  endeavors  to  avoid  the  danger  that  threat- 
ened him,  but  his  horse  proved  unmanageable.  To  make 
short  of  it,  the  coach-and-six  turned  them  both  topsy-turvy  ; 
but  at  the  same  time  the  coach,  too,  was  completely  over- 
turned. In  an  instant  the  horse  and  the  man,  instead  oc 
amusing  themselves  with  having  their  limbs  broken,  rose 
almost  miraculously  ;  the  man  remounted,  and  gillopel 
away,  and  is  galloping  still,  for  aught  I  know  ;  while  the  ser- 
vants, the  archbishop's  coachman,  and  the  archbishop  him- 
self at  the  head  of  them,  cried  out,  "  Stop  that  villain,  stop 
him  !  thrash  him  soundly!"  The  rage  of  the  archbishop 
was  so  great,  tiiat  afterward,  in  relating  the  adventure,  he 
said,  if  he  could  have  caught  the  rascal,  he  would  have  broke 
all  his  bones,  and  cut  off  both  his  ears. 

If  such  things  were  done  by  the  aristocracy  — • 
and  the  spiritual  aristocrac}'  at  that !  —  in  the  green 
tree,  what  might  not  be  expected  in  the  dry? 
The  writer  makes  no  comment  —  draws  no  moral. 
"Adieu,  m}'  dear,  delightful  child.  I  cannot  ex- 
press my  eagerness  to  see  you,"  are  her  next  words. 
iShe  rattles  along,  three  short  sentences  more,  and 
finishes  her  letter. 

We  should  still  not  have  done  with  these  letters, 
were  we  to  go  on  a  hundred  pages,  or  two  hundred, 
farther.  Readers  have  already  seen  truly  what 
Madame  de  S^vign^  is.  They  have  only  not  seen 
fully  all  that  she  is.     And  that  they  would  not  see 


Comeille.  151 

short  of  reading  her  letters  entire.  Horace  Wal- 
polc  aspired  to  do  in  English  for  his  own  time  some- 
tliing  like  what  Madame  de  Sevigne  had  done  in 
French  for  hers.  In  a  measnre  he  succeeded.  The 
difference  is,  that  he  was  imitative  and  affected, 
where  she  was  original  and  genuine. 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  must,  of  course, 
also  be  named,  as,  by  her  sex,  her  social  position, 
her  talent,  and  the  devotion  of  her  talent,  an  Eng- 
lish analogue  to  Madame  de  S^vign6.  But  these 
comparisons,  and  all  comparison,  leave  the  French 
woman  without  a  true  parallel,  alone  in  her  rank, 
the  most  famous  letter- writer  in  the  world. 


X. 

CORNEILLE. 
1606-1684. 


The  two  great  names  in  French  tragedy  are  Cor 
neille  and  Racine.  French  traged}'  is  a  very 
different  affair  from  either  modern  tragedy  in  Eng- 
lish or  ancient  tragedy-  in  Greek.  It  comes  nearer 
being  Roman  epic,  such  as  Lucan  wrote  Roman 
epic,  dramatized. 

Drama  is  everywhere  and  always,  and  this  from 
the  nature  of  things,  a  highly  conventional  literary 


152        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

form.  But  the  convention  under  which  French 
tragedy  should  be  judged  differs,  on  the  one  hand, 
from  that  which  existed  for  Greek  tragedy,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  from  that  existing  for  the  English. 
The  atmosphere  of  real  life  present  in  English 
tragedy  is  absent  in  French.  The  quasi-supernatural 
religious  awe  that  reigned  over  Greek  tragedy,  French 
tragedy  does  not  affect.  You  miss  also  in  French 
traged}'  the  severe  simplicity,  the  self-restraint,  the 
statuesque  repose,  belonging  to  the  Greek  model. 
Loftiness,  grandeur,  a  loftiness  somewhat  strained, 
a  grandeur  tending  to  be  tumid,  an  heroic  tone  sus- 
tained at  sacrifice  of  ease  and  natuie  —  such  is  the 
element  in  which  French  tragedy  lives  and  flourishes. 
You  must  grant  your  French  tragedists  this  their 
conventional  privilege,  or  you  will  not  enjoy  them. 
You  must  grant  them  this,  or  you  cannot  understand 
them.  Resolve  that  you  will  like  grandiloquence, 
requiring  only  that  the  grandiloquence  be  good,  and 
on  this  condition  we  can  promise  that  you  will  be 
pleased  with  Corneille  and  Racine.  In  fact,  our 
readers,  we  are  sure,  will  find  the  grandiloquence  of 
these  two  tragedy-writers  so  very  good  that  a  little 
will  suffice  them. 

Voltaire  in  his  time  impressed  himself  strongly 
enough  on  his  countrymen  to  get  accepted  by  his 
own  generation  as  an  equal  third  in  tragedy  with 
Corneille  and  Racine.  There  was  then  a  French 
triumvirate  of  tragedists  to  be  paralleled  with  the  tri- 
umvirate of  the  Greeks.     Corneille  was  JEscbylus ; 


Gorneille.  153 

Racine  was  Sophocles ;  and,  of  course,  Euripides 
had  his  counterpart  iu  Voltaire.  Voltaire  lias  since 
descended  from  the  tragic  throne,  and  that  neat 
symmetry  of  trine  comparison  is  spoiled.  There  is, 
however,  some  trace  of  justtce  in  making  Corneil'.o 
as  related  to  Racine  resemble  iEsch^-lus  as  related 
to  Sophocles.  Corneille  was  first,  more  rugged, 
loftier ;  Racine  was  second,  more  polished,  more 
severe  in  taste.  Racine  had,  too,  in  contrast  with 
Corneille,  more  of  the  Eluripidean  sweetness.  In 
fact.  La  Bru3-tire's  celebrated  comparison  of  the  two 
Frenchmen  —  made,  of  course,  before  Voltaire  — 
yoked  them,  Corneille  with  Sophocles,  Racine  with 
Euripides. 

It  was  perhaps  not  without  its  influence  on  the 
style  of  Corneille,  that  a  j'outhful  labor  of  his  in 
authorship  was  to  translate,  wholly  or  partially,  the 
"  Pharsalia  "  of  Lucan.  Corneille  always  retained 
his  fondness  for  Lucan.  This  taste  on  his  part,  and 
the  rlnmed  Alexandrines  in  which  he  wrote  tragedy, 
may  together  help  account  for  the  hyper-heroic  st}  le 
which  is  Corneille's  great  fault.  A  lady  criticised 
his  tragedy,  "The  Death  of  Pompey,"  by  saying: 
"Very  fine,  but  too  many  heroes  in  it."  Corneille's 
tragedies  generally  have,  if  not  too  many  heroes,  at 
least  too  much  hero,  in  them.  Concerning  the  his- 
torian Gibbon's  habitual  jwmp  of  expression,  it  was 
once  wittily  said  that  nobody  could  possibly  tell  the 
truth  in  such  a  style  as  that.  It  would  be  equally 
near  the  mark  if  we  should  say  of  Corneille's  chosen 
11 


154        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

mould  of  verse,  that  nobody  could  possibly  be  simi)le 
and  natural  in  that.  Moli^re's  comedy,  however, 
would  almost  confute  us. 

Pierre  Orneille  was  born  in  Rouen.  He  studied 
law,  and  he  was  admitted  to  practice  as  an  advocate, 
like  Molit^re ;  but,  like  JNIolitire,  he  heard  and  he 
heeded  an  inward  voice  summoning  him  awa}'  from 
the  bar  to  the  stage.  Corneille  did  not,  however, 
like  Moli^re,  tread  the  boards  as  an  actor.  He  had 
a  lively  sense  of  personal  dignity.  He  was  eminently 
the  "loft}',  grave  tragedian,"  in  his  own  esteem. 
"But  I  am  Pierre  Corneille  notwithstanding,"  he 
self-respectingl}' said  once,  when  friends  were  regret- 
ting to  him  some  deficiency  of  grace  in  his  personal 
carriage.  One  can  imagine  him  taking  off  his  hat 
to  himself  with  unaffected  deference. 

But  this  serious  genius  began  dramatic  composi- 
tion with  writing  comedy.  He  made  several  experi- 
ments in  this  kind  wdth  no  commanding  success ; 
but  at  thirty  he  wrote  the  tragedy  of  "  The  Cid,"  and 
instantly  became  famous.  His  subsequent  plays 
were  chiefly  on  classical  subjects.  The  subject  of 
' '  The  Cid  "  was  drawn  from  Spanish  literature.  This 
was  emphatically  what  has  been  called  an  "  epoch- 
making  "  production.  Richelieu's  "Academy,"  at 
the  instigation,  indeed  almost  under  the  dictation, 
of  Richelieu,  who  was  jealous  of  Corneille,  tried  to 
wi'ite  it  down.  They  succeeded  about  as  Balaam  suc- 
ceeded in  prophesying  against  Israel.  "  The  Cid  " 
triumphed  over  them,  and  over  the  great  minister. 


Corneille.  155 

It  established  not  only  Corneille's  fame,  but  his 
authority.  The  man  of  genius  taken  alone,  proved 
stronger  than  the  men  of  taste  taken  together. 

For  all  this,  however,  our  readers  would  hardly 
relish  "The  Cid."  Let  us  go  at  once  to  that  tra- 
gedy of  Corneille's  which,  by  the  general  consent  of 
French  critics,  is  the  best  work  of  its  author,  the 
"  Polyeuctes."  The  following  is  the  rhetorical  cli- 
max of  praise  in  which  Gaillard,  one  of  the  most 
enlightened  of  Corneille's  eulogists,  arranges  the 
different  masterpieces  of  his  author:  "'The  Cid' 
raised  Corneille  above  his  rivals  ;  the  '  Horace  '  and 
the  'Cinna'  above  his  models;  the  'Polyeuctes* 
above  himself."  This  tragedy  will,  we  doubt  not, 
prove  to  our  readers  the  most  interesting  of  all  the 
tragedies  of  Corneille. 

"  The  great  Corneille  "  —  to  appl}'  the  traditionary 
designation  which,  besides  attributing  to  our  trage- 
dian his  conceded  general  eminence  in  character 
and  genius,  serves  also  to  distinguish  him  by  merit 
from  his  younger  brother,  who  wrote  very  good 
tragedy  —  was  an  illustrious  figure  at  the  Hotel  de 
Kambouillet,  that  focus  of  the  best  literaiy  criticism 
in  France.  Corneille  reading  a  play  of  his  to  the 
coterie  of  wits  assembled  there  under  the  presidency 
of  ladies  whose  ej'cs,  as  in  a  kind  of  tournament  of 
letters,  rained  influence  on  authors,  and  judged  the 
prize  of  genius,  is  the  subject  of  a  striking  picture 
by  a  French  painter.  Corneille  read  "Polyeuctes" 
at  the  H6tel  de  Rambouillet,  and  that  awful  court 


156        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

decided  against  the  pla}'.  Corneille,  like  Michel 
Angelo,  had  to  a  good  degree  the  courage  of  his  own 
productions  ;  but,  in  the  face  of  adverse  decision 
so  august  on  liis  woik.  he  needed  encoui-agenient, 
which  liappily  l:e  did  not  fail  to  receive,  before  he 
would  allow  his '' Polyeuctes  "  to  be  represented. 
The  theatre  crowned  it  with  the  laurels  of  victory.  It 
thus  fell  to  Corneille  to  triumph  successively,  single- 
handed,  over  two  great  adversary  courts  of  critical 
appreciation,  —  the  Academy  of  Richelieu  and  the 
not  less  formidable  Hotel  de  Rambouillet. 

The  ol)jection  raised  by  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet 
against  the  "  Polyeuctes  "  was  that  it  made  the  stage 
encroach  on  the  prerogative  of  the  pulpit,  and 
preach  instead  of  simply  amusing.  And,  indeed, 
never,  perhaps,  since  the  Greek  tragedy,  was  the 
theatre  made  so  much  to  serve  the  solemn  purposes 
of  religion.  (We  except  the  miracle  and  passion 
plays  and  the  mysteries  of  the  middle  ages,  as  not 
belonging  within  the  just  bounds  of  a  comparison 
like  that  now  made.)  Corneille's  final  influence 
was  to  elevate  and  purify  the  French  theatre.  In 
his  early  works,  however,  he  made  surprising  con- 
cessions to  the  lewd  taste  in"  the  drama  that  he  found 
prevailing  when  he  began  to  write.  With  whatever 
amount  of  genuine  religious  scruple  affecting  his 
conscience,  —  on  that  point  we  need  not  judge  the 
poet,  —  Corneille  used,  before  putting  them  on  the 
stage,  to  take  his  plaj's  to  the  "Church,"  —  that 
is,  to   the  priestly  hierarchy  who   constituted   the 


Comeille.  157 

"Church," — that  they  might  be  authoritatively 
judged  as  to  their  possible  influence  on  the  cause  of 
Christian  truth. 

In  the  "  Pol3'eucte8,"  the  motive  is  religion.  Poly- 
euctes  is  an  historic  or  traditional  saint  of  the  Roman- 
Catholic  church.  His  conversion  from  paganism  is 
the  theme  of  the  play.  Pol^euctes  has  a  friend 
Nearchus  who  is  ali'ead}'  a  Christian  convert,  and 
who  labors  earnestly  to  make  Polyeuctes  a  proselyte 
to  the  faith.  Polyeuctes  has  previously  married 
a  noble  Roman  ladj',  daughter  of  Felix,  governor 
of  Armenia,  in  which  province  the  action  of  the 
story  occurs.  (The  persecuting  Emperor  Decius  is 
on  the  throne  of  the  Roman  world.)  Paulina  is 
the  daughter's  name,  Paulina  married  Polyeuctes 
against  her  own  choice,  for  she  loved  Roman  Severus 
better.  Her  father  had  put  his  will  upon  her,  and 
Paulina  had  filially  obeyed  in  marrying  Polyeuctes. 
Such  are  the  relations  of  the  different  persons  of 
the  drama.  It  will  be  seen  that  there  is  ample  room 
for  the  play  of  elevated  and  tragic  passions.  Pau- 
lina, in  fact,  is  the  lofty,  the  impossible,  ideal  of 
wifely  and  daughterly  truth  and  devotion.  Pagan 
though  she  is,  she  is  pathetically  constant,  both  to 
the  husband  that  was  forced  upon  her,  and  to  the 
father  that  did  the  forcing  ;  while  still  she  loves, 
and  cannot  but  love,  the  man  whom,  in  spite  of  her 
love  for  him,  she,  with  an  act  like  prolonged  sui- 
cide, stoically  separates  from  her  torn  and  bleeding 
heart. 


158       Classic  French  Course  in  E7iglish. 

But  Sevcriis  on  his  part  emulates  the  nobleness 
of  the  woman  whom  he  vainl}-  loves.  Learning  the 
true  state  of  the  case,  he  rises  to  the  height  of  his 
opportunity  for  magnanimous  behavior,  and  bids 
the  married  pair  be  happy  in  a  long  life  together. 

A  change  in  the  situation  occurs,  a  change  due  to 
the  changed  mood  of  the  father,  Felix.  Felix  learns 
that  Severus  is  high  in  imperial  favor,  and  he  wishes 
now  that  Severus,  instead  of  Polyeuctes,  were  his 
son-in-law.  A  decree  of  the  emperor  makes  it  pos- 
sible that  this  preferable  alternative  may  yet  be 
realized.  For  the  emperor  has  decreed  that  Chris- 
tians must  be  persecuted  to  the  death,  and  Polyeuctes 
has  been  baptized  a  Christian  —  though  of  this  Felix 
will  not  hear  till  later. 

A  solemn  sacrifice  to  the  gods  is  to  be  celebrated 
in  honor  of  imperial  victories  lately  won.  Felix 
sends  to  summon  Polyeuctes,  his  son-in-law.  To 
Felix's  horror,  Polyeuctes,  with  his  friend  Nearchus, 
coming  to  the  temple,  proceeds  in  a  frenz}'  of 
enthusiasm  to  break  and  dishonor  the  images  of  the 
gods,  proclaiming  himself  a  Christian.  In  obedience 
to  the  imperial  decree,  Nearchus  is  hurried  to  execu- 
tion, in  the  sight  of  his  friend,  while  Polyeuctes  is 
thrown  into  prison  to  repent  and  recant. 

'  Now  is  my  chance,'  muses  Felix.  '  I  dare  not 
disobey  the  emperor,  to  spare  Polyeuctes.  Besides, 
with  Polyeuctes  once  out  of  the  way,  Severus  and 
Paulina  may  be  husband  and  wife.' 

Polyeuctes  in  prison  hears  that  his   Paulina   is 


Corneille.  169 

coming  to  see  him.  With  a  kind  of  altruistic  noble- 
ness which  seems  contagious  in  this  play,  Polyeuctes 
resolves  that  Severus  shall  come  too,  and  he  will 
resign  his  wife,  soon  to  be  a  widow,  to  the  care  of 
his  own  rival,  her  Roman  lover.  First,  Polyeuctes 
and  Paulina  are  alone  together  —  Polyeuctes  having,  \ 
'jefore  she  arrived,  fortified  his  soul  for  the  conflict 
•vith  her  tears,  by  singing  in  his  solitude  a  song  of 
high  resolve  and  of  anticipative  triumph  over  his 
temptation. 

The  scene  between  Paulina,  exerting  all  her  power 
to  detach  Polyeuctes  from  what  she  believes  to  be 
his  folly,  and  Polyeuctes,  on  the  other  hand,  rapt 
to  the  pitch  of  martyrdom,  exerting  all  his  power 
to  resist  his  wife,  and  even  to  convert  her  —  this 
scene,  we  say,  is  full  of  noble  height  and  pathos, 
as  pathos  and  height  were  possible  in  the  verse 
which  Corneille  had  to  write.  Neither  struggler  in 
tliis  tragic  strife  moves  the  other.  Paulina  is  with- 
drawing when  Severus  enters.  She  addresses  her 
lover  severely,  but  Polyeuctes  intervenes  to  defend 
him.  In  a  short  scene,  Polyeuctes,  by  a  sort  of  last 
will  and  testament,  bequeaths  his  wife  to  his  rival, 
and  retires  with  his  guard.  Now,  Severus  and  Pau- 
lina are  alone  together.  If  there  was  a  trace  of  the 
false  heroic  in  Polyeuctes 's  resignation  of  his  wife 
to  Severus,  the  effect  of  that  is  finely  counteracted 
by  the  scene  which  immediately  follows  between 
Paulina  and  Severus.  Severus  begins  doubtfully, 
staggering,  as   it  were,  to   firm   posture,  while  he 


160       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

speaks  to  Paulina.  He  expresses  amazement  at  the 
conduct  of  Polyeuctes.  Christians  certainly  deport 
themselves  strangely,  he  says.  He  at  length  finds 
himself  using  the  following  lover-like  language  :  — 

As  for  me,  had  my  destiny  become  a  little  earlier  propi- 
tious and  honored  my  devotion  by  marriage  with  you,  I 
should  have  adored  only  the  splendor  of  your  eyes;  of  them 
I  should  have  made  my  kings;  of  them  1  should  have  made 
my  gods;  sooner  vv^ould  I  have  been  reduced  to  dust,  sooner 
would  I  have  been  reduced  to  ashes,  than  — 

But  here  Paulina  interrupts,  and  Severus  is  not 
permitted  to  finish  his  protestation.  Her  reply  is 
esteemed,  and  justly  esteemed,  one  of  the  noblest 
things  iu  French  tragedy  —  a  French  critic  would 
be  likely  to  saj-,  the  very  noblest  in  tragedy.  She 
says :  — 

Let  us  break  off  there;  I  fear  listening  too  long;  I  fear 
lest  this  warmth,  Avhich  feels  your  first  fires,  force  on  some 
sequel  unworthy  of  us  both.  [Voltaire,  who  edited  Cor- 
neille  with  a  feeling  of  freedom  toward  a  national  idol 
comparable  to  the  sturdy  independence  that  animated  John- 
son in  annotating  Shakspeare,  says  of  "  This  warmth  which 
feels  your  first  fires  and  which  forces  on  a  sequel " :  "  That  is 
badly  written,  agreed;  but  the  sentiment  gets  the  better 
of  the  expression,  and  what  follows  is  of  a  beauty  of 
which  there  had  been  no  example.  The  Greeks  were  frigid 
declaimers  in  comparison  with  this  passage  of  Corneilie."] 
Severus,  learn  to  know  Paulina  all  in  all. 

My  Polyeuctes  touches  on  his  last  hour;  he  has  but  a 
moment  to  live;  you  are  the  cause  of  this,  though  innocently 
so.  1  know  not  if  your  heart,  yielding  to  your  desires,  may 
have  dared  build  any  hope  ou  his  destruction;  but  know 


Corneille.  161 

that  there  is  no  death  so  cruel  that  to  it  with  firm  brow  I 
would  not  bend  my  steps,  that  there  are  in  hell  no  horrors 
that  I  would  not  endure,  rather  than  soil  a  glory  so  pure, 
rather  than  espouse,  after  his  sad  fate,  a  man  that  was  in 
any  wise  the  cause  of  his  death ;  and  if  you  suppose  me  of  a 
heart  so  little  sound,  the  love  which  I  had  for  you  would  all 
turn  to  hate.  You  are  generous;  be  so  even  to  the  end. 
My  father  is  in  a  state  to  yield  every  thing  to  you ;  be  fears 
you;  and  I  further  bazar  J  this  saying,  that,  if  he  destroys  my 
husband,  it  is  to  you  that  he  sacrifices  him.  Save  this  un- 
happy man,  use  your  influence  in  his  favor,  exert  yourself  to 
become  his  support.  I  know  that  this  is  much  that  I  ask; 
but  the  greater  the  effort,  the  greater  the  glory  from  it.  To 
preserve  a  rival  of  whom  you  are  jealous,  that  is  a  trait  of 
virtue  which  appertains  only  to  you.  And  if  your  renown 
is  not  motive  suflBcient,  it  is  much  that  a  woman  once  so 
well  beloved,  and  the  love  of  whom  perhaps  is  still  cap.ible 
of  touching  you,  will  owe  to  your  great  heart  the  dearest 
possession  that  she  owns;  remember,  in  short,  that  you  are 
Severus.  Adieu.  Decide  with  yourself  alone  wha^  you 
ought  to  do;  if  you  are  not  such  as  I  dare  hope  that  you  are, 
then,  in  order  that  I  may  continue  to  esteem  you,  I  wish 
not  to  know  it. 

Voltaire,  as  editor  and  commentator  of  Corneule, 
is  freezingly  cold.  It  is  difficult  not  to  feel  that  at 
heart  he  was  unfriendl}'  to  the  great  tragedist's 
fame.  His  notes  often  are  remorselessly  gram- 
matical. "  This  is  not  French  ;  "  "  This  is  not  the 
right  word  ;  "  "  According  to  the  construction,  this 
should  mean  so  and  so  —  according  to  the  sense,  it 
must  mean  so  and  so;"  "This  is  hardly  intelligi- 
ble ;  "  "  It  is  a  pity  that  such  or  such  a  fault  should 
mar  these  fine  veraes  ; "  "  An  expression  for  comedy 


162       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

rather  than  tragedy," — are  the  kind  of  remarks  with 
which  Voltaire  cliills  the  euthusiasm  of  the  reader. 
It  is  useless,  however,  to  deny  that  the  criticisms 
thus  made  are  many  of  them  just.  Corneille  does 
not  belong  to  the  class  of  the  "  faultily  faultless  " 
writers. 

Severus  proves  equal  to  Paulina's  noble  hopes  of 
him.  With  a  great  effort  of  self-sacrifice,  he  re- 
solves to  intercede  for  Polyeuctes.  This  is  shown 
in  an  interview  between  Severus  and  his  faithful 
attendant  Fabian.  Fabian  warns  him  that  he  ap- 
peals for  Polyeuctes  at  his  own  peril.  Severus 
loftily  replies  (and  here  follows  one  of  the  most 
lauded  passages  in  the  play)  :  — 

Tljat  advice  might  be  good  for  some  common  soul. 
Thougli  he  [the  Emperor  Decius]  holds  in  his  hands  my 
life  and  my  fortune,  I  am  yet  Severus;  and  all  that  mighty 
power  is  powerless  over  my  glory,  and  powerless  over  my 
duty.  Here  honor  compels  me,  and  I  will  satisfy  it;  whether 
fate  afterward  show  itself  propitious  or  adverse,,  perishing 
glorious  I  shall  perish  content. 

I  will  tell  thee  further,  but  under  confidence,  the  sect  of 
Christians  is  not  what  it  is  thought  to  be.  They  are  hated, 
why  I  know  not;  and  I  see  Decius  unjust  only  in  this 
regard.  From  curiosity  I  have  sought  to  become  a,cquainled 
with  them.  They  are  regarded  as  sorcerers  taught  from 
hell;  and,  in  this  sujiposition,  the  punishment  of  death  is 
visited  on  secret  mysteries  which  we  do  not  understand. 
But  Eleusinian  Ceres  and  the  Good  Goddess  have  their 
secrets,  like  those  at  Rome  and  in  Greece;  still  we  freely 
tolerate  everywhere,  their  god  alone  excepted,  every  kind  of 
god;  all  the  monsters  of  Egypt  have  their  temples  in  Kome; 


Corneille.  1G3 

our  fathers,  at  their  will,  made  a  god  of  a  man;  and,  their 
blood  in  our  veins  preserving  their  errors,  we  fill  heaven 
with  all  our  emperors;  but,  to  speak  without  disguise  of 
deifications  so  numerous,  the  effect  is  very  doubtful  of  such 
metamorphoses. 

Christians  have  but  one  God,  absolute  master  of  all, 
whose  mere  will  does  whatever  he  resolves;  but,  if  I  may 
venture  to  say  what  seems  to  me  true,  our  gods  very  often 
agree  ill  together;  and,  though  their  wrath  crush  me  before 
your  eyes,  we  have  a  good  many  of  them  for  them  to  be 
true  gods.  Finally,  among  the  Christians,  morals  are  pure, 
vices  are  hated,  virtues  flourish;  they  offer  prayers  on  be- 
half of  u*' who  persecute  them;  and,  during  all  the  time 
since  we  have  tormented  them,  have  they  ever  been  seen 
mutinous  ?  Have  they  ever  been  seen  rebellious  ?  Have  our 
princes  ever  had  more  faithful  soldiers  ?  Fierce  in  war, 
they  submit  themselves  to  our  executioners;  and,  lions  in 
combat,  they  die  like  lambs.  I  pity  them  too  much  not  to 
defend  them.  Come,  let  us  find  Felix;  let  us  commune 
with  his  son-in-law;  and  let  us  thus,  with  one  single  action, 
gratify  at  once  Paulina,  and  my  glory,  and  my  com- 
passion. 

Such  is  the  high  heroic  stj'le  in  which  pagan 
Severus  resolves  and  speaks.  And  thus  the  fourth 
act  ends. 

Felix  makes  a  sad  contrast  with  the  high-hearted- 
ness  which  the  other  characters,  most  of  them, 
display.  He  is  base  enough  to  suspect  that  Severus 
is  base  enough  to  be  false  and  treacherous  in  his 
act  of  iutercession  for  Poljeuctes.  He  imagines  he 
detects  a  plot  against  himself  to  undermine  him 
with  the  emperor.  Voltaire  criticises  Corneille  for 
giving  this  sordid  character   to  Felix.     He  thinks 


164      Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

the  tragedist  might  better  have  let  Felix  be  actuated 
by  zeal  for  the  pagan  gods.  The  mean  selfishness 
that  aniftiates  the  governor,  Voltaire  regards  as 
below  the  right  tragic  pitch.  It  is  the  poet  him- 
self, no  doubt,  with  that  high  Roman  fashion  of  his, 
who,  unconsciously  to  the  critic,  taught  him  to  make 
the  criticism. 

Felix  summons  Polyeuctes  to  an  interview,  and 
adjures  him  to  be  a  prudent  man.  Felix  at  length 
says,  "Adore  the  gods,  or  die."  "I  am  a  Chris- 
tian," simply  replies  the  martjT.  "  ImpiouS  !  Adore 
them,  I  bid  you,  or  renounce  life."  (Here  again 
Voltaire  offers  one  of  his  refrigerant  criticisms : 
*■'  Renounce  life  does  not  advance  upon  the  meaning 
of  die;  when  one  repeats  the  thought,  the  expres- 
sion should  be  strengthened.',')  Paulina  meantime 
has  entered  to  expostulate  with  Polyeuctes  and  with 
her  father.  Polyeuctes  bids  her,  '  Live  with  Sev- 
erus.'  He  says  he  has  revolved  the  subject,  and  he 
is  convinced  that  another  love  is  the  sole  remedy 
for  her  woe.  He  proceeds  in  the  calmest  manner 
to  point  out  the  advantages  of  the  course  recowi- 
mended.  Voltaire  remarks,  ^  justly,  we  are  bound 
to  say, — that  these  maxims  are  here  somewhat 
revolting  ;  the  martyr  should  have  had  other  things 
to  say.  On  Felix's  final  word,  '■  Soldiers,  execute 
the  order  that  I  have  given,"  Paulina  exclaims, 
"Whither  are  you  taking  him?"  "To  death," 
says  Felix.  "  To  glory,"  says  Polyeuctes.  "Ad- 
mirable dialogue,  and  always  applauded,"  is  Vol- 
taire's note  on  this. 


Corneille.  166 

The  tragedy  does  not  end  with  the  martyrdom  of 
Polycuctcs.  Puiilina  becomes  a  Christian,  but  re- 
mains pagan  enough  to  call  her  father  "  barbarous  " 
in  acrimoniously  bidding  him  finish  his  work  by  put- 
ting his  daughter  also  to  death.  Severns  reproaches 
Felix  for  his  cruelt}-,  and  threatens  him  with  his  own 
enmity.  Felix  undergoes  instantaneous  conversion, 
—  a  miracle  of  grace  which,  under  the  circumstances 
provided  by  Corneille,  we  may  excuse  Voltaire  for 
laughing  at.  Paulina  is  delighted ;  and  Severus 
asks,  "  AVho  would  not  be  touched  by  a  spectacle 
so  tender?  " 

The  tragedy  thus  comes  near  ending  happily 
enough  to  be  called  a  comedy. 

Such  as  the  foregoing  exhibits  him,  is  Corneille, 
the  father  of  French  tragedy,  where  at  his  best ; 
wdiere  at  his  worst,  he  is  something  so  different  that 
you  would  hardly  admit  him  to  be  the  same  man. 
For  never  was  genius  more  unequal  in  different 
manifestations  of  itself,  than  Corneille  in  his  dif- 
ferent works.  Molicire  is  reported  to  have  said  that 
Corneille  had  a  familiar,  or  a  fairy,  that  came  to  him 
at  times,  and  enabled  him  to  write  sublimely  ;  but 
that,  when  the  poet  was  left  to  himself,  he  could  write 
as  poorl}-  as  another  man. 

Corneille  produced  some  thirty-three  dramatic 
pieces  in  all,  but  of  these  not  more  than  six  or 
seven  retain  their  place  on  the  French  stage. 

Besides  his  plays,  there  is  a  translation  in  verse 
by  him  of   the  "Imitation   of   Christ ;"  there  are 


166       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

metrical  versions  of  a  considerable  number  of  the 
Psalms ;  there  are  odes,  madrigals,  sonnets,  stan- 
zas, addresses  to  the  king.  Tlien  there  are  dis- 
courses ia  prose  on  dramatic  poetry,  on  trnged}', 
and  on  the  three  unities.  Add  to  these,  elaborate 
appreciations  by  himself  of  a  considerable  number 
of  his  own  pla3'S,  prefaces,  epistles,  arguments  to 
his  pieces,  and  j^ou  have,  what  with  the  notes,  the 
introductions,  the  eulogies,  and  other  such  things 
that  the  faithful  French  editor  knows  so  well  how 
to  accumulate,  matter  enough  of  Corneille  to  swell 
out  eleven,  or,  in  one  edition, — that  issued  under 
Napoleon  as  First  Consul,  —  even  twelve,  handsome 
volumes  of  his  works. 

Corneille  and  Bossuet  together  constitute  a  kind 
of  rank  by  themselves  among  the  Dii  Majores  of 
the  French  literary  Olympus. 


XI. 

RACINE. 
1639-1699. 

Jean  Racine  was  Pierre  Corneille  reduced  to  rule. 
The  younger  was  to  the  elder  somewhat  as  Sophocles 
or  Euripides  was  to  iEschylus,  as  Virgil  was  to 
Lucretius,   as  Pope  was  to  Dryden.     Nature  was 


Racine.  167 

more  in  Comeille,  ai-t  was  moi*e  in  Racine.  Cor- 
neille  was  a  pathfinder  in  literature-  He  led  the 
way,  even  for  MoliJire,  still  more  for  Racine.  But 
Racine  was  as  much  before  Corneille  in  perfection 
of  art,  as  Corneille  was  before  Racine  in  audacity 
of  genius.  Racine,  accordingly,  is  much  more  even 
and  uniform  than  Corneille.  Smoothness,  polish, 
ease,  grace,  sweetness,  —  these,  and  monotony  in 
these,  are  the  mark  of  Racine.  But  if  there  is, 
in  the  latter  poet,  less  to  admire,  there  is  also  less 
to  forgive.  His  taste  and  his  judgment  were  surer 
than  the  taste  and  the  judgment  of  Corneille.  He 
enjoyed,  moreover,  an  inestimable  advantage  in  the 
life-long  friendship  of  the  great  critic  of  his  time, 
Boileau.  Boileau  was  a  literary  conscience  to  Ra- 
cine. He  kept  Racine  constantly  spurred  to  his 
best  endeavors  in  art.  Racine  was  congratulatinj; 
himself  to  his  friend  on  the  ease  with  which  he  pro- 
duced his  vei"se.  "  Let  me  teach  you  to  produce 
easy  verse  with  difficulty,"  was  the  critic's  admi- 
rable reply.  Racine  was  a  docile  pupil.  He  became 
as  painstaking  an  artist  in  verse  as  Boileau  would 
have  him. 

It  will  always  be  a  matter  of  individual  taste,  and 
of  changing  fashion  in  criticism,  to  decide  which  of 
the  two  is,  on  the  whole,  to  be  preferred  to  the 
other.  Racine  eclipsed  Corneille  in  vogue  during 
the  lifetime  of  the  latter.  Comeille 's  old  age  was, 
perhaps,  seriously  saddened  by  the  consciousness, 
which  he  could  not  but  have,  of  being  retired  from 


168        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

the  place  of  ascendency  once  accorded  to  him  over 
all.  His  case  repeated  the  fortune  of  ^schylus  in 
relation  to  Sophocles.  The  eighteenth  century, 
taught  by  Voltaire,  established  the  precedence  of 
Racine.  But  the  nineteenth  century  has  restored 
the  crown  to  the  brow  of  Corneille.  To  such  ir/.i- 
tations  is  subject  the  fame  of  an  author. 

Jean  Racine  was  early  left  an  orphan.  His  grand- 
parents put  him,  after  preparatory  training  at  an- 
other establishment,  to  school  at  Port  Royal,  where 
during  three  ^ears  he  had  the  best  opportunities  of 
education  that  the  kingdom  afforded.  His  friends 
wanted  to  make  a  clergyman  of  him  ;  but  the  pref- 
erences of  the  boy  prevailed,  and  he  addicted  him- 
self to  literature.  The  Greek  tragedists  became 
familiar  to  him  in  his  youth,  and  their  example  in 
literary  art  exercised  a  sovereign  influence  over 
Racine's  development  as  author.  It  pained  the 
good  Port-Royalists  to  see  their  late  gifted  pupil, 
now  out  of  their  hands,  inclined  to  write  plays. 
Nicole  printed  a  remonstrance  against  the  theatre, 
in  which  Racine  discovered  something  that  he  took 
to  slant  anonymously'  at  himself.  He  wrote  a  spirited 
reply,  of  which  no  notice  was  taken  by  the  Port- 
Royalists.  Somebody,  however,  on  their  behalf, 
rejoined  to  Racine,  whereupon  the  young  author 
wrote  a  second  letter  to  the  Port-Royalists,  which 
he  showed  to  his  friend  Boileau.  "This  may  do 
credit  to  ^our  head,  but  it  will  do  none  to  your 
heart,"    was   that   faithful   mentor's   comment,    in 


Racine.  i69 

returning  the  document.  Racine  suppressed  his 
second  letter,  and  did  his  best  to  recall  the  first. 
But  he  went  on  in  his  course  of  writing  for  the 
stage. 

The  "  Thebaid  "  was  Racine's  first  tragedy,  —  at 
least  his  first  that  attained  to  the  honor  of  being 
represented.  Moli^re  brought  it  out  in  his  theatre, 
the  Palais  Royal.  His  second  tragedy,  the  "Alex- 
ander the  Great,"  was  also  put  into  the  hands  of 
Molidre. 

This  latter  play  the  author  took  to  Corneille  to 
get  his  judgment  on  it.  Corneille  was  thirty-three 
years  the  senior  of  Racine,  and  he  was  at  this  time 
the  undisputed  master  of  French  tragedj-.  "You 
have  undoubted  talent  for  poetry  —  for  tragedy,  not ; 
try  your  hand  in  some  otlier  poetical  line,"  was  Cor- 
neille's  sentence  on  the  unrecognized  young  rival, 
who  was  so  soon  to  supplant  him  in  popular  favor. 

The  "  Andromache  "  followed  the  "Alexander," 
and  then  Racine  did  try  his  hand  ia  another  poetical 
line;  for  he  wrote  a  comedy,  his  only  one,  "The 
Suitors,"  as  is  loosel}-  translated  '*  Les  Plaideurs." 
a  title  which  has  a  legal,  and  not  an  amorous,  mean- 
ing. This  play,  after  it  .had  at  first  failed,  Louis 
XIV".  laughed  into  court  favor.  It  became  thence- 
forward a  great  success.  It  still  keeps  its  place  on 
the  stage.  It  is,  however,  a  farce,  rather  than  a 
comedy. 

We  pass  over  now  one  or  two  of  the  subsequent 
productions  of  Racine,  to  mention  next  a  play  of 
12 


170        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

his  which  had  a  singular  history.  It  was  a  fancy  of 
the  brilliant  Princess  Henriette.(that  same  daughter 
of  English  Charles  I.,  Bossuet's  funeral  oration  on 
whom,  presently  to  be  spoken  of,  is  so  celebrated) 
to  engage  the  two  great  tragedists,  Corneille  and 
Racine,  both  at  once,  in  labor,  without  their  mutual 
knowledge,  upon  the  same  subject,  —  a  subject 
which  she  herself,  di-awing  it  from  the  bistor}*  of 
Tacitus,  conceived  to  be  eminently  fit  for  tragical 
treatment.  Corneille  produced  his  "Berenice," 
and  Racine  his  "Titus  and  Berenice."  The  prin- 
cess died  before  the  two  plays  which  she  had  inspired 
were  produced  ;  but,  when  they  were  produced,  Ra- 
cine's work  won  the  palm.  The  rivalry  created  a 
bitterness  between  the  two  authors,  of  which,  natu- 
rall}-,  the  defeated  one  tasted  the  more  deeply,  ^^n 
ill-considered  pleasantry,  too,  of  Racine's,  in  making, 
out  of  one  of  Corneille's  tragic  lines  in  his  "  Cid," 
a  comic  line  in  "The  Suitors,"  hurt  the  old  man's 
pride.  That  pride  suffered  a  worse  hurt  still.  The 
chief  Parisian  theatre,  completely  occupied  with  the 
works  of  his  victorious  rival,  rejected  tragedies 
offered  by  Corneille. 

Still,  Racine  did  not  have  things  all  his  own  way. 
Some  good  critics  considered  the  rage  for  this 
younger  dramatist  a  mere  passing  whim  of  fashion. 
These  —  Madame  de  S6vigne  was  of  them  —  stood 
by  their  "  old  admiration,"  and  were  true  to  Cor- 
neille. 

A  memorable  mortification  and  chagrin  for  our 


Racine.  171 

poet  was  now  prepared  by  his  enemies  —  he  seems 
never  to  have  lacked  enemies  —  with  lavish  and 
elaborate  malice.  Racine  had  produced  a  play  from 
Euripides,  the  "  Phaedra,"  on  which  he  had  un- 
stintingly  bestowed  his  best  genius  and  his  best  art. 
Jt  was  contrived  that  another  poet,  one  Pradon, 
sliould,  at  the  self-same  moment,  have  a  play  rep- 
resented on  the  Sv'lf-same  subject.  At  a  cost  of 
many  thousands  of  dollars,  the  best  seats  at  Racine's 
theatre  were  all  bought  by  his  enemies,  and  left 
solidly  vacant.  Tlie  best  seats  at  Pradon 's  theatre 
were  all  bought  by  the  same  interested  parties,  and 
duly  occupied  with  industrious  and  zealous  applaud- 
ers.  This  occurred  at  six  successive  representa- 
tions. The  result  was  the  immediate  apparent 
ti'iumph  of  Pradon  over  the  humiliated  Racine. 
Boileau  in  vain  bade  his  friend  be  of  good  cheer, 
and  await  the  assured  reversal  of  the  verdict. 
Racine  was  deeply  wounded. 

This  discomposing  experience  of  the  poet's,  joined 
with  conscientious  misgivings  on  his  part 'as  to  the 
propriety  of  his  course  in  writing  for  the  stage,  led 
him  now,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-eight,  to  renounce 
tragedy  altogether.  His  son  Louis,  from  whose 
life  of  Racine  we  have  chiefly  drawn  our  material 
for  the  present  sketch,  conceives  this  change  in  his 
father  as  a  profound  and  genuine  religious  conver- 
sion. Writers  whose  spirit  inclines  them  not  to 
relish  a  condemnation  such  as  seems  thus  to  be 
reflected   on    the   theatre,   take   a  less    charitable 


172       Classic  French  Course  in   English. 

view  of  the  change.  They  account  for  it  as  a 
reaction  of  mortified  pride.  Some  of  them  go  so 
far  as  groundlessly  to  impute  sheer  hypooisy  to 
Racine. 

A  long  interval  of  silence,  on  Racine's  part,  had 
elapsed,  when  Madame  de  Maintcnon,  the  wife  of 
Louis  XIV.,  asked  the  unemployed  poet  to  prepare 
a  sacred  play  for  the  lise  of  tiie  high-born  girls 
educated  under  her  care  at  St.  Cyr.  Racine  con- 
sented, and  produced  his  ''  Esther,"  This  achieved 
a  prodigious  success  ;  for  the  court  took  it  up,  and 
an  exeicise  written  for  a  girls'  school  became  the 
admiration  of  a  kingdom.  A  second  similar  play 
followed,  the  "•  Athaliah,"  — the  last,  and,  by  gen- 
eral agreement,  the  most  perfect,  work  of  its  author. 
We  thus  reach  that  tragedy  of  Racine's  which  both 
its  fame  and  its  character  dictate  to  us  as  the  one 
by  eminence  to  be  used  here  in  exhibition  of  the 
quality  of  this  Virgil  among  tragedists. 

Our  readers  may,  if  they  please,  refresh  their 
recollection  of  the  history  on  which  the  drama  is 
founded  by  perusing  Second  Kings,  chapter  eleven, 
and  Second  Chronicles,  chapters  twenty-two  and 
twenty-three.  Athaliah,  whose  name  gives  its  title 
to  the  tragedy,  was  daughter  to  the  wicked  king, 
Ahab.  She  reigns  as  queen  at  Jerusalem  over  the 
kingdom  of  Judah.  'J'o  secure  her  usurped  position, 
she  had  sought  to  kill  all  the  descendants  of  King 
David,  even  her  own  grandchildren.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded, —  but  not  quite.     Young  Joash  escaped,  to 


Racine.  173 

be  secretly  reared  in  the  temple  by  the  high  priest. 
The  final  disclosure  of  this  hidden  prince,  and  his 
coronation  as  king  in  place  of  usurping  Athaliah, 
destined  to  be  fearfully  overthrown,  and  put  to  death 
in  his  name,  afford  the  action  of  the  play.  Action, 
however,  there  is  almost  none  in  classic  French 
tragedy.  The  tragic  drama  is,  with  the  French,  as 
it  was  with  the  Greeks,  after  whom  it  was  framed, 
merely  a  succession  of  scenes  in  which  speeches  are 
made  by  the  actors.  Lofty  declamation  is  always 
the  character  of  the  play.  In  the  "Athaliah,"  as 
in  the  "'  Esther,"  Racine  introduced  the  feature  of 
the  chorus,  a  restoration  which  had  all  the  effect 
of  an  innovation.  The  chorus  in  "Athaliah"  con- 
sisted of  Hebrew  virgins,  who,  at  intervals  marking 
the  transitions  between  the  acts,  chanted  the  spirit 
of  the  piece  in  its  successive  stages  of  progress 
toward  the  final  catastrophe.  The  "Athaliah"  is 
almost  proof  agamst  technical  criticism.  It  is 
acknowledged  to  be,  after  its  kind,  a  nearly  ideal 
product  of  art. 

There  is  a  curious  story  about  the  fortune  of  this 
piece  with  the  public,  that  will  interest  our  readers. 
The  first  success  of  "  Athaliah  "  was  not  great.  In 
fact,  it  was  almost  a  flat  failure.  But  a  company  of 
wits,  playing  at  forfeits  somewhere  in  the  country*, 
severely  sentenced  one  of  their  number  to  go  by 
himself,  and  read  the  first  act  of  "  Athaliah."  The 
victim  went,  and  did  not  return.  Sought  at  length, 
be  was  found  just  commencing  a  secoud  perusal  of 


174       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

the  play  entire.  He  reported  of  it  so  enthusiasti- 
cally, that  he  was  asked  to  read  it  before  the  com- 
pany, which  he  did,  to  their  delight.  This  started 
a  reaction  in  favor  of  the  condemned  play,  which 
soon  came  to  be  counted  the  masterpiece  of  its 
author. 

First,  in  specimen  of  the  choral  feature  of  the 
drama,  we  content  ourselves  with  giving  a  single  cho- 
rus from  the  "  Athaliah."  This  we  turn  into  rh^me, 
clinging  pretty  closely  all  the  way  to  the  form  of  the 
original.  Attentive  readers  may,  in  one  place  of  our 
rendering,  observe  an  instance  of  identical  rhyme. 
This,  in  a  piece  of  verse  originally  written  in  English, 
would,  of  course,  be  a  fault.  In  a  translation  from 
French,  it  may  pass  for  a  merit ;  since,  to  judge  from 
the  practice  of  the  national  poets,  the  French  ear 
seems  to  be  even  better  pleased  with  such  strict  identi- 
ties of  sound,  at  the  close  of  corresponding  lines,  than 
it  is  with  those  definite  mere  resemblances  to  which, 
in  English  versification,  i-hj'mes  are  rigidly  lim- 
ited. Suspense  between  hope  and  dread,  dread 
preponderating,  is  the  state  of  feeling  represented 
in  the  present  chorus.  Salomith  is  the  leading 
singer :  — 

Salomith. 

The  Lord  hath  deigned  to  speak, 
But  what  he  to  his  prophet  now  hath  shown  — 
Who  unto  us  will  make  it  clearly  known  ? 

Arms  he  himself  to  save  us,  poor  and  weak  ? 
*     Arms  he  himself  to  have  us  overthrown  ? 


Racine.  175 

The  whole  Chorus. 

0  promises !  O  threats !  O  mystery  profound ! 
What  woe,  what  weal,  are  each  in  tui-n  foretold  ? 

How  can  so  much  of  wrath  be  found 
So  much  of  love  to  enfold  ? 

A  Voice. 
Zion  shall  be  no  more;  a  cruel  flame 
Will  all  her  ornaments  devour. 

A  Second  Voice. 
God  shelters  Zion;  she  has  shield  and  tower 
In  His  eternal  name. 

First  Voice. 

1  see  her  splendor  all  from  vision  disappear. 

Second  Voice. 
I  see  on  every  side  her  glory  shine  more  clear. 

First  Voice. 
Into  a  deep  abyss  is  Zion  sunk  from  sight. 

Second  Voice. 
Zion  lifts  up  her  brow  amid  celestial  light. 

First  Voice. 
What  dire  despair! 

Second  Voice. 

What  praise  from  every  tongue! 

First  Voice. 
What  cries  of  grief  ! 

Second  Voice. 

What  songs  of  triumph* sung! 


176        Classic  French  Course  in  Unglish. 

A  Third  Yoice. 
Cease  we  to  vex  ourselves ;  our  God,  one  day, 
Will  tills  great  mystery  make  clear. 

All  Three  Voices. 
Let  us  his  Avrath  revere. 
While  on  his  love,  no  less,  our  hopes  we  stay. 

The  catfistrophe  is  reached  in  the  coronation  of 
little  Joash  as  king,  and  in  the  destruction  of  usurp- 
ing and  wicked  Athaliah.  Little  Joash,  by  the  waj', 
with  his  rather  precocious  wisdom  of  reply,  derived 
to  himself,  for  the  moment,  a  certain  factitious  in- 
terest, from  the  resemblance,  meant  by  the  poet  to 
be  divined  by  spectators,  between  him  and  the  little 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  Louis  XIV. 's  grandson,  then 
of  about  the  same  age  with  the  Hebrew  boy,  and 
of  high  reputation  for  mental  vivacity. 

The  scene  in  which  the  high  priest,  Jehoiada,  for 
the  first  time  discloses  to  his  foster-son,  Joash,  the 
latter's  royal  descent  from  David,  and  his  true  heir- 
ship to  the  throne  of  Judah,  will  serve  sufficiently 
to  exhibit  what  maturity  of  modest  and  pious  wis- 
dom the  dramatist  attributes  to  this  Hebrew  boy  of 
nine  or  ten  years.  Nine  or  ten  years  of  age  Racine 
makes  Joash,  instead  of  seven,  as  Scripture,  inter- 
preted without  violence,  would  make  him.  The  lad 
has  had  his  sage  curiosity  excited  by  seeing  prepa- 
rations in  progress  for  some  important  ceremonial. 
That  ceremonial  is  his  own  coronation,  but  he  does 
not  guess  the  secret.     Nay,  he  has  just  touchingly 


Racine.  177 

asked  his  foster-mother,  observed  by  him  to  be  in 
tears :  — 

What  pity  touches  you  ?  Is  it  that  in  a  holocaust  to  be 
this  day  offered,  I,  like  Jephtha's  daughter  in  otlier  times, 
must  pacify  by  my  death  tlie  anger  of  tlie  Lord  ?  Alas,  a 
son  has  nothing  that  does  not  belong  to  his  father! 

The  discreet  foster-mother  refers  the  lad  to  her 
husband,  Jehoiada,  now  approaching.  Joash  rushes 
into  the  arms  of  the  high  priest,  exclaiming,  "My 
father!"  "Well,  my  son?"  the  high-priest  re- 
plies. "  What  preparations,  then,  are  these?  "  asks 
Joash.  The  high  priest  bids  him  prepare  himself 
to  listen  and  learn,  the  time  being  now  come  for 
him  to  pay  his  debt  to  God  :  — 

JoASii.  I  feel  myself  ready,  if  he  wishes  it,  to  give  to 
him  my  life. 

jEnoiADA.  You  have  often  heard  read  the  history  of 
our  kings.  Do  you  remember,  my  son.  what  strict  laws  a 
king  worthy  of  the  crown  ought  to  imj>use  upon  himself  ? 

JoAsu.  A  wise  and  good  king,  so  hath  God  himself  de- 
clared, puts  not  his  reliance  upon  riches  and  gold;  he  fears 
the  Lord  his  God,  has  ever  before  him  his  precepts,  his 
laws,  his  judgments  severe,  and  does  not  with  unjust  bur- 
dens overwhelm  his  brethren. 

F^nelon  had  already  been  two  years  preceptor  to 
the  Duke  of  Burgund}'  when  this  tragedy  was  writ- 
ton.  It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  Racine  must 
have  had  that  prince  in  mind  when  he  put  into  the 
mouth  of  young  Joash  sentiments  so  likely  to  have 


178       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

been  instilled  into  the  heart  of  his  royal  pupil,  the 
great  king's  grandson,  by  such  a  preceptor  as  F6ne- 
lon.  How  could  the  selfish  old  monarch  of  France 
contrive  to  avoid  recognizing  his  own  portrait,  sug- 
gested by  contrast  in  that  description  of  the  good 
king  from  the  lips. of  little  Joash?  Racine  was  here 
treading  on  treacherous  ground.  He  will  presently 
find  his  footing  quite  give  way  under  him,  to  let 
him  down  into  the  "  horrible  pit"  of  disgrace  with 
his  king.     This  not,  however,  in  the  present  play. 

The  tragedist  has  generousl}^  bestowed  u[)on 
wicked  Queen  Athaliah  a  certain  loftiness  of  spirit 
which,  in  its  display  in  the  final  catastrophe,  almost  re- 
deems her  to  admiration,  if  not  to  sympathy.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  play  more  nearly'  sublime  in  decla- 
mation than  the  final  speech  in  which  Athaliah  greets 
her  own  doom,  and  blasphemousl}'  forecasts,  for 
j-oung  King  Joash,  a  future  of  apostasy  from  God. 
With  this  admirable  piece  of  rhetoric,  resembling  a 
burst  of  blasphemy'  from  Satan  in  "  Paradise  Lost," 
so  far  as  French  poetry  ma}'  be  allowed  to  resemble 
English,  we  conclude  our  representation  of  Racine. 
Athaliah  has  now  just  heard  tlie  announcement  of 
things  that  assure  her  of  the  overthrow  of  her 
usurpation.  She  expresses  herself  in  a  speech,  the 
first  words  of  which  wei-e,  no  doubt,  designed  by  the 
poet  to  recall  the  celebrated  traditional  exclamation 
of  Julian  the  Apostate,  uttered  at  a  moment  of 
irretrievable  disaster  to  his  impious  hopes, —  "0 
Galilean,  thou  hast  conquered  I  "  as  follows :  — 


Racine.  179 

God  of  the  Jews,  'tis  thou  that  dost  prevail! 

Ay,  it  is  Joash ;  all  without  avail 

Seek  I  to  cheat  myself  with  other  thought: 

I  know  the  wound  my  weapon  on  him  wrought; 

I  see  his  father  Ahaziah's  face; 

Naught  hut  brings  back  to  nu  tha*  hated  race. 

David  doth  triumph,  Ahab  only  fall,  — 

Unpitying  God,  thou  only  hast  done  all! 

'Tis  thou  that  flattering  me  to  hope  in  vain 

For  easy  vengeance,  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Hast  with  myself  myself  embroiled  anew. 

Now  pangs  of  conscience  rousing,  not  a  few, 

Now  dazzling  me  with  thy  rich  treasures  rare, 

Which  I  to  burn  or  pillage  did  not  dare. 

Let  him,  then,  reign,  this  son,  thy  care,  thy  toil, 

And,  so  to  signalize  his  new-got  spoil. 

Let  him  into  my  bosom  plunge  the  knife, 

And  take  with  filial  hand  his  mother's  life. 

Hearken  what  wish  for  him  she  dying  breathes  — 

Wish  ?  nay,  what  hope,  assured  hope,  bequeaths,  — 

That,  disobedient,  proud,  rebellious,  he. 

Faithful  to  Ahab's  blood  received  from  me. 

To  his  grandfather,  to  his  father,  like. 

Abhorrent  heir  of  David,  down  may  strike 

Thy  worship  and  thy  fane,  avenger  fell 

Of  Athaliah,  Ahab,  Jezebel! 

With  woi-ds  thus  rendered  into  such  English  verse 
as  we  could  command  for  the  purpose,  Athaliah 
disappears  from  the  stage.  Her  execution  follows 
immediately.  This  is  not  exhibited,  but  is  announced 
with  brief,  solemn  comment  from  Jehoiada.  And 
so  the  tragedy  ends. 

The  interest  of  the  piece,  to  the  modem  reader, 
is  by  no  means  equal  to  its  fame.     One  reproachea 


180       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

one's  self,  but  one  yawns  in  conscientiously  perusing 
it.  Still,  one  feels  the  work  of  the  author  to  be 
irreproachably,  nay,  consummately,  good.  But 
fashions  in  taste  change  ;  and  we  cannot  hold  our- 
selves responsible  for  admiring,  or,  at  any  rate,  for 
enjoying,  according  to  the  judgment  of  other  races 
and  of  former  generations.  It  is  —  so,  with  grave 
concurrence,  we  say  —  It  is  a  great  classic,  worthy 
of  the  praise  that  it  receives.  We  are  glad  that  we 
have  read  it ;  and,  let  us  be  candid,  equally  glad 
that  we  have  not  to  read  it  again. 

As  has  already  been  intimated,  Racine,  after 
"  Athaliah,"  wrote  tragedy  no  more.  He  ceased 
to  interest  himself  in  the  fortune  of  his  plays.  His 
sou  Louis,  in  his  Life  of  his  father,  testifies  that  he 
never  heard  his  father  speak  in  the  family  of  the 
dramas  that  he  had  written.  His  theatrical  triumphs 
seemed  to  alTord  him  no  pleasure.  He  repented  of 
them  rather  than  gloried  in  them. 

While  one  need  not  doubt  that  this  regret  of 
Racine's  for  the  devotion  of  his  powers  to  the  pro- 
duction of  tragedy,  was  a  sincere  regi'et  of  his  eon- 
science,  one  may  properly  wish  that  the  regret  had 
been  more  heroic.  The  fact  is,  Racine  was  some- 
what feminine  in  character  as  well  as  in  genius. 
He  could  not  beat  up  with  stout  heart  undismayed 
against  an  adverse  wind.  And  the  wind  blew  ad- 
verse at  length  to  Racine,  from  the  principal  quarter, 
the  court  of  Versailles.  From  being  a  chief  favorite 
with  his  sovereign,  Racine  fell  into  the  position  of 


Racine.  181 

an  exile  from  the  royal  presence.  The  immediate 
occasion  was  one  honorable  rather  than  otherwise 
to  the  poet. 

In  conversation  with  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
Racine  had  expressed  views  on  the  state  of  France 
and  on  the  duties  of  a  king  to  liis  subjects,  which 
so  impressed  her  mind  that  she  desired  him  to 
reduce  liis  observations  to  writing,  and  confide  them 
to  her,  she  promising  to  keep  them  profoundly  secret 
from  Louis.  But  Louis  surprised  her  with  the  manu- 
script in  her  hand.  Taking  it  from  her,  he  read  iu 
it,  and  demanded  to  know  the  author.  Madame  de 
Maintenon  could  not  linally  refuse  to  tell.  "  Does 
M.  Racine,  because  he  is  a  great  poet,  think  that 
he  knows  everything?"  the  despot  angrily  asked. 
Louis  never  spoke  to  Racine  again.  The  distressed 
and  infatuated  poet  still  made  some  paltry  request 
of  the  king,  to  experience  the  humiliation  that  he 
invoked.  His  request  was  not  granted.  Racine 
wilted,  like  a  tender  plant,  under  the  sultry  frown 
of  his  monarch.  He  could  not  rally.  He  soon 
after  died,  literally  killed  by  the  mere  displeasure 
of  one  man.  Such  was  the  measureless  power 
wielded  by  Louis  XIV.  ;  such  was  the  want  of  virile 
stuff  in  Racine.  A  spirit  partly  kindred  to  the  tra- 
gedist,  Archbishop  F^nelon,  will  presently  be  shown 
to  have  had  at  about  the  same  time  a  partly  similar 
experience. 


182        Classic  French   Course  in  English. 


XII. 

BOSSUET:   1627-1704;    BOURDALOUE :   1632- 
1704;    MASSILLON:    1663-1742. 

We  group  three  names  in  one  title,  Bossuet,  Bour- 
daloue,  Massillou,  to  represent  the  pulpit  oratois  of 
France.  There  are  other  great  names,  —  as  Flt^chier, 
with  Claude  and  Saurin,  the  last  two,  Protestants 
both,  —  l)ut  the  names  we  choose  are  the  greatest. 

Bossuet's  individual  distinction  is,  that  he  was  a 
great  man  as  well  as  a  great  orator;  Bourdaloue's, 
that  he  was  priest-and-preacher  simply  ;  INIassillon's, 
that  his  sermons,  regarded  quite  independently  of 
their  subject,  their  matter,  their  occasion,  regarded 
merely  as  masterpieces  of  pure  and  classic  style, 
became  at  once,  and  permanently  became,  a  part  of 
French  literature. 

The  greatness  of  Bossuet  is  an  article  in  the 
French  national  creed.  No  Frenchman  disputes  it ; 
no  Frenchman,  indeed,  but  proclaims  it.  Protestant 
agrees  with  Catholic,  infidel  with  Christian,  at  least 
i.i  this.  Bossuet,  twinned  here  with  Corueille,  is  to 
the  Frenchman,  as  Milton  is  to  the  Englishman,  his 
synonym  for  sublimity.  Eloquence,  somehow,  seems 
a  thing  too  near  the  common  human  level  to  answer 
fulh'  the  need  that  Frenchmen  feel  in  speaking  of 
Bossuet.     BoBsuet  is  not  eloquent,  he  is  sublime. 


JBo88uet.  183 

That  in  French  it  is  in  equal  part  oratory,  while  in 
English  it  is  poetrj'  almost  alone,  that  supplies  in 
literature  its  satisfaction  to  the  sentiment  of  the 
sublime,  very  well  represents  the  difference  in  genius 
between  the  two  races.  The  French  idea  of  poetry 
is  eloquence  ;  and  it  is  eloquence  carried  to  its  height, 
whether  in  verse  or  in  prose,  that  constitutes  for  the 
Frenchman  sublimity.  The  difference  is  a  difference 
of  blood.  English  blood  is  Teutonic  in  base,  and 
the  imagination  of  the  Teuton  is  poetic.  French 
blood,  in  base,  is  Celtic ;  and  the  imagination  of  the 
Celt  is  oratorio. 

Jacques  Benigne  Bossuet  was  of  good  bourgeois, 
or  middle-class,  stock.  lie  passed  a  well-ordered 
and  virtuous  youth,  as  if  in  prophetic  consistency 
with  what  was  to  be  his  subsequent  career.  He  was 
brought  forward  while  a  j'oung  man  in  the  Hotel 
de  Rambouillet,  where,  on  a  certain  occasion,  he 
preached  a  kind  of  show  sermon,  under  the  auspices 
of  his  admiring  patron.  In  due  time  he  attracted 
wide  public  attention,  not  merely  as  an  eloquent 
orator,  but  as  a  profound  student  and  as  a  powerful 
controversialist.  His  character  and  influence  be- 
came in  their  maturity  such,  that  La  Brujdre  aptly 
called  him  a  "  Father  of  the  Church."  "  The  Cor- 
neille  of  the  pulpit,"  was  Henri  Martin's  charac- 
terization and  praise.  A  third  phrase,  "  the  eagle 
of  Meaux,"  has  passed  into  almost  an  alternative 
name  for  Bossuet.  He  soared  like  an  eagle  in  his 
eloquence,  and  he  was  bishop  of  Meaux. 


184       Classic  French  Cow^se  in  English. 

Bossiiet  and  Louis  XIV.  were  exactlj'  suited  to 
each  other,  in  the  mutual  relation  of  subject  and 
sover'^ign.  Bossuet  preached  sincerely  —  as  every- 
body kiiovvs  Louis  sincerely  practised  —  the  doctrine 
of  the  divine  right  of  kings  to  rule  absolutely.  But 
the  proud  prelate  compromised  neither  his  own  dig- 
nity nor  the  dignity  of  the  Church  in  the  presence 
of  the  absolute  monarch. 

Bossuet  threw  himself  with  great  zeal,  and  to  pro- 
digious effect,  into  the  controversy  against  Protes- 
tantism. His  "  Histor}'  of  the  Variations  of  the 
Protestant  Churches,"  in  two  good  volumes,  was 
one  of  the  mightiest  pamphlets  ever  written.  Aa 
tutor  to  the  Dauphin  (the  king's  eldest  son),  he 
produced,  with  other  works,  his  celebrated  "  Dis- 
course on  Universal  Histor}'." 

In  proceeding  now  to  give,  from  the  three  great 
preachers  named  in  our  title,  a  few  specimen  pas- 
sages of  the  most  famous  pulpit  oratory  in  the  world, 
we  need  to  prepare  our  readers  against  a  natural 
disappointment.  That  which  they  are  about  to  see 
has  nothing  in  it  of  what  will  at  first  strike  them  as 
brilliant.  The  pulpit  eloquence  of  the  Augustan 
age  of  France  was  distinctly  "  classic,"  and  not  at 
all  "  romantic,"  in  style.  Its  character  is  not  ornate, 
but  severe.  There  is  little  rhetorical  figure  in  it, 
little  of  that  "  illustration  "  which  our  own  different 
national  taste  is  accustomed  to  demand  from  the 
pulpit.  There  is  plenty  of  white  light,  "dry  light" 
and  white,  for  the  reason  ;  but  there  is  almost  no 


Bossuef.  185 

bright  color  for  the  fancy,  and,  it  mnst  be  added, 
not  a  great  deal  of  melting  warmth  for  the  heart. 

The  funeral  orations  of  Bossuet  are  generally  es- 
teemed the  masterpieces  of  this  orator's  eloquence. 
He  had  great  occasions,  and  he  was  great  to  match 
them.  Still,  readers  might  easily  be  disappointed  in 
perusing  a  funeral  oration  of  Bossuet's.  The  dis- 
course will  generally  be  found  to  deal  in  common- 
places of  description,  of  reflection,  and  of  sentiment. 
Those  commonplaces,  however,  are  often  made  very 
impressive  by  the  lofty,  the  magisterial,  the  imperial, 
manner  of  the  preacher  in  treating  them.  "We  ex- 
hibit a  specimen,  a  single  specimen  onh-,  and  a 
brief  one,  in  the  majestic  exordium  to  the  funeral 
oration  on  the  Princess  Henrietta  of  England. 

This  princess  was  the  last  one  left  of  the  children 
of  King  Charles  I.  of  England.  Her  mother's  death 
—  her  mother  was  of  the  French  house  of  Bourbon  — 
had  occurred  but  a  short  time  before,  and  Bossuet 
had  on  that  occasion  pronounced  the  eulog}-.  The 
daughter,  scarcely  returned  to  France  from  a  secret 
mission  of  state  to  England,  the  success  of  which 
made  her  an  object  of  distinguished  regard  at  Ver- 
sailles, suddenly  fell  ill  and  died.  Bossuet  was 
summoned  to  preach  at  her  funeral.  (Wo  have  not 
been  able  to  fmd  an  English  translation  of  Bossuet, 
and  we  accordingly  make  the  present  transfer  from 
French  ourselves.  AVe  do  the  same,  for  the  same 
reason,  in  the  case  of  Massillon.  In  tlie  case  of 
Bourdaloue,  we  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  printed 
13 


186       Classic  French  Course  in  UnglisTi. 

translation  which  wc  could  modify  to  suit  our  pur- 
pose.)     Bossuet :  — 

It  was  then  reserved  for  my  lot  to  pay  this  funereal  trih- 
ute  to  the  high  and  potent  princess,  Henrietta  of  England, 
Duchess  of  Orleans.  She  whom  1  had  seen  so  attentive 
while  I  was  discharging  a  like  office  for  the  queen  her 
mother,  was  so  soon  after  to  he  the  suhject  of  a  similar  dis- 
course, and  my  sad  voice  was  predestined  to  this  melancholy 
service.  O  vanity!  O  nothingness!  O  mortals!  Ignorant  of 
their  destiny!  Ten  months  ago,  would  she  have  believed 
it  ?  And  you,  my  hearers,  would  you  have  thought,  while 
she  was  shedding  so  many  tears  in  this  place,  that  she  was 
so  soon  to  assemble  you  here  to  deplore  her  own  loss  ?  O 
princess !  the  worthy  object  of  the  admiration  of  two  great 
kingdoms,  was  it  not  enough  that  England  should  deplore 
your  absence,  without  being  yet  further  compelled  to  deplore 
your  death  ?  France,  who  with  so  much  joy  beheld  you 
again,  surrounded  with  a  new  brilliancy,  liad  she  not  in 
reserve  other  pomps  and  other  triumphs  for  you,  returned 
from  that  famous  voyage  whence  you  had  brought  hither  so 
much  glory,  and  hopes  so  fair  ?  "  Vanity  of  vanities;  all  is 
vanity."  Isothing  is  left  for  me  to  say  but  that;  that  is  the 
only  sentiment  which,  in  presence  of  so  strange  a  casualty, 
grief  so  well-grounded  and  so  poignant,  permits  me  to  in- 
dulge. Xor  have  I  explored  the  Iloly  Scriptures  in  order  to 
find  therein  some  text  which  I  might  apply  to  this  princess ; 
I  have  taken,  without  premeditation  and  without  choice, 
the  first  expression  presented  to  me  by  the  Preacher,  with 
whom  vanity,  although  it  has  been  so  often  named,  is  yet, 
to  my  mind,  not  named  often  enough  to  suit  the  purpose 
that  I  have  in  view.  I  wish,  in  a  single  misfortune,  to 
lament  all  the  calamities  of  the  human  race,  and  in  a  single 
death  to  exhibit  the  death  and  the  nothingness  of  all  human 
greatness.  This  text,  which  suits  all  the  circumstances  and 
all  the  occurrences  of  our  life,  becomes,  1)y  a  si)ecial  adapted- 


Dossuet.  187 

ness,  appropriate  to  my  mournful  theme ;  since  never  were 
the  vanities  of  the  earth  either  so  clearly  disclosed  or  so 
openly  confounded.  No,  after  what  we  have  just  seen, 
health  is  but  a  name,  life  is  but  a  dream,  glory  is  but  a 
shadow,  charms  and  pleasures  are  but  a  dangerous  diversion. 
Every  thing  is  vain  within  us,  except  the  sincere  acknowl- 
edgment made  before  God  of  our  vanity,  and  the  fixed  judg- 
ment of  the  mind,  leading  us  to  despise  all  that  we  are. 

But  did  I  speak  the  truth  ?  Man,  whom  God  made  in  his 
own  image,  is  he  but  a  shadow  ?  That  which  Jesus  Christ 
came  from  heaven  to  earth  to  seek,  that  which  he  deemed  that 
he  could,  without  degrading  himself,  ransom  with  his  own 
blood,  is  that  a  mere  nothing  ?  Let  us  acknowledge  our  mis- 
take; surely  this  sad  spectacle  of  the  vanity  of  things  human 
was  leading  us  astray,  and  public  hope,  baffled  suddenly  by 
the  death  of  this  princess,  was  urging  us  too  far.  It  must 
not  be  permitted  to  man  to  despise  himself  entirely,  lest  he, 
supposing,  in  common  with  the  wicked,  that  our  life  is  but  a 
game  in  which  chance  reigns,  take  his  way  without  rule  and 
without  self-control,  at  the  pleasure  of  his  own  blind  wishes. 
It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  Preacher,  after  having  com- 
menced his  inspired  production  by  the  expressions  which  I 
have  cited,  after  having  filled  all  its  pages  with  contempt  for 
things  human,  is  pleased  at  last  to  show  man  something 
more  substantial,  by  saying  to  him,  "  Fear  God,  and  keep 
his  commandments;  for  this  is  the  whole  duty  of  man.  For 
God  shall  bring  every  work  into  judgment,  with  every  secret 
thing,  whether  it  be  good,  or  whether  it  be  evil."  Thus 
every  thing  is  vain  in  man,  if  we  regard  what  he  gives  to  the 
world;  but,  on  the  contrary,  every  thing  is  important,  if  we 
consider  what  he  owes  to  God.  Once  again,  every  thing  is 
vain  in  man,  if  we  regard  the  course  of  his  mortal  life;  but 
every  thing  is  of  value,  every  thing  is  important,  if  we  con- 
template the  goal  where  it  ends,  and  the  accoimt  of  it  whicb 
he  must  render.  Let  us,  therefore,  meditate  to-day,  in  pres- 
ence of  this  altar  and  of  this  tomb,  the  first  and  the  last 


188       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

utterance  of  the  Preacher;  of  which  the  one  shows  the 
nothingness  of  man,  the  other  establishes  his  greatness. 
Let  this  tomb  convince  us  of  our  nothingness,  provided  that 
this  altar,  where  is  daily  offered  for  us  a  Victim  of  price  so 
great,  teach  us  at  the  same  time  our  dignity.  The  princess 
whom  we  weep  shall  be  a  faithful  witness,  both  of  the  one 
and  of  the  other.  Let  us  survey  that  which  a  sudden  death 
has  taken  away  from  her ;  let  us  survey  that  which  a  holy 
death  has  bestowed  upon  her.  Thus  shall  we  learn  to  de- 
spise that  which  she  quitted  without  regret,  in  order  to 
attach  all  our  regard  to  that  which  she  embraced  with  so 
much  ardor,  —  when  her  soul,  purified  from  all  earthly  senti- 
ments, full  of  the  heaven  on  whose  border  she  touched,  saw 
the  light  completely  revealed.  Such  are  the  truths  which  I 
have  to  treat,  and  which  I  have  deemed  worthy  to  be  pro- 
posed to  so  great  a  prince,  and  to  the  most  illustrious  assem- 
bly in  the  world. 

It  will  be  felt  how  removed  is  the  foregoing  from 
any  thing  like  an  effort,  on  the  preacher's  part,  to 
startle  his  audience  with  the  far-fetched  and  unex- 
pected. It  must,  however^  be  admitted  that  Bossuet 
was  not  always  —  as,  of  our  Webster,  it  has  well  been 
said  that  he  always  was  —  superior  to  the  tempta- 
tion to  exaggerate  an  occasion  by  pomps  of  rhe.toric. 
Bossuet  was  a  great  man,  but  he  was  not  quite  great 
enough  to  be  wholly  free  from  pride  of  self-con- 
sciousness in  matching  himself  as  orator  against 
"  the  most  illustrious  assembly  in  the  world." 

The  ordinary  sermons  of  Bossuet  are  less  read, 
and  they  less  deserve  perhaps  to  be  read,  than  those 
of  Bourdaloue  and  Massillon. 


Bourdaloue,  189 

BouRDALOUE  was  a  voice.  He  was  the  voice  of 
one  crying,  not  in  the  wilderness,  but  amid  the  homes 
and  haunts  of  men,  and,  by  eminence,  in  the  court 
of  the  most  powerful  and  most  splendid  of  earthly 
monarchs.  He  was  a  Jesuit,  one  of  the  most  de- 
voted and  most  accomplished  of  an  order  filled  with 
devoted  and  accomplished  men.  It  belonged  to  his 
Jesuit  character  and  Jesuit  training,  that  Bourdaloue 
should  hold  the  place  that  he  did  as  ever-successful 
courtier  at  Versailles,  all  the  while  that,  as  preacher, 
he  was  using  the  "  holy  freedom  of  the  pulpit  "  to 
launch  those  blank  f  ulminations  of  his  at  sin  in  high 
places,  at  sin  even  in  the  highest,  and  all  the  briefer 
while  that,  as  confessor  to  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
he  was  influencing  the  policy  of  Louis  XIV. 

No  scandal  of  any  sort  attaches  to  the  reputation 
of  Louis  Bourdaloue.  He  was  a  man  of  spotless 
fame, — unless  it  be  a  spot  on  his  fame  that  he  could 
please  the  most  selfish  of  sinful  monarchs  well  enough 
to  be  that  monarch's  chosen  preacher  during  a  longer 
time  than  any  other  pulpit  orator  whatever  was  tol- 
erated at  Versailles.  He  is  described  by  all  who 
knew  him  as  a  man  of  gracious  spirit.  If  he  did 
not  reprobate  and  denounce  the  revocation  of  the 
Edict  of  Nantes,  that  was  rather  of  the  age  than  of 
Bourdaloue. 

Sainte-Beuve,  in  a  remarkably  sympathetic  appre- 
ciation of  Bourdaloue,  —  free,  contrary  to  the  critic's 
wont,  from  hostile  insinuation  even, — regards  it  as 
part  of  the  merit  of  this  preacher  that  there  is,  and 


190       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

that  there  can  be,  no  biography  of  him.  His  public 
life  is  summed  up  in  simply  saying  that  he  was  a 
preacher.  During  thirty-four  laborious  and  fruitful 
years  he  preached  the  doctrines  of  the  Church ; 
and  this  is  the  sole  account  to  be  given  of  him, 
except,  indeed,  that  in  the  confessional  he  was, 
all  that  time,  learning  those  secrets  of  the  human 
heart  which  he  used  to  such  effect  in  composing  his 
sermons.  He  had  very  suave  and  winning  ways 
as  confessor,  though  he  enjoined  great  strictness  as 
preacher.  This  led  a  witty  woman  of  his  time  to 
say  of  him:  "Father  Bourdaloue  charges  high  in 
the  pulpit,  but  he  sells  cheap  in  the  confessional," 
How  much  laxity  he  allowed  as  confessor,  it  is,  of 
course,  impossible  to  say.  But  his  sermons  remain 
to  show  that,  though  indeed  he  was  severe  and  high 
in  requirement  as  preacher,  he  did  not  fail  to  soften 
asperity  by  insisting  on  the  goodness,  while  he 
insisted  on  the  awfulness,  of  God,  Still,  it  cannot 
be  denied,  that  somehow  the  elaborate  compliments 
which,  as  an  established  convention  of  his  pulpit, 
he  not  infrequently  delivered  to  Louis  XIV.,  tended 
powerfully  to  make  it  appear  that  his  stern  denun- 
ciation of  sin,  which  at  first  blush  might  seem 
directly  levelled  at  the  king,  had  in  reality  no  appli- 
cation at  all,  or  but  the  very  gentlest  application,  to 
the  particular  case  of  his  Most  Christian  Majesty. 

We  begin  our  citations  from  Bourdaloue  with  an 
extract  from  a  sermon  of  his  on  "A  Perverted 
Conscience."      The   whole   discourse    is   one   well 


Bourdaloue.  191 

worth  the  study  of  any  reader.  It  is  a  piece  of 
searching  psychological  analysis,  and  pungent  appli- 
cation to  conscience.  Bourdaloue,  in  his  sermons, 
has  alwaj's  the  air  of  a  man  seriousl}'  intent  on  pro- 
ducing practical  results.  There  are  no  false  motions. 
Every  swaying  of  the  preacher's  weapon  is  a  blow, 
and  every  blow  is  a  hit.  There  is  hardly  another 
example  in  homiletic  literature  of  such  compactness, 
such  solidity,  such  logical  consecutiveness,  such  co- 
gency, such  freedom  from  surplusage.  Tare  and  tret 
are  excluded.  Every  thing  counts.  You  meet  wnth 
two  or  three  adjectives,  and  j'ou  at  first  naturally 
assume,  that,  after  the  usual  manner  of  homilists, 
Bourdaloue  has  thrown  these  in  without  rigorously 
definite  purpose,  simply  to  heighten  a  general  effect. 
Not  at  all.  There  follows  a  development  of  the 
preacher's  thought,  constituting  virtually  a  distinct 
justification  of  each  adjective  employed.  You  soon 
learn  that  there  is  no  random,  no  waste,  in  this 
man's  words.  But  here  is  the  promised  extract 
from  the  sermon  on  "A  Perverted  Conscience." 
In  it  Bourdaloue  depresses  his  gun,  and  discharges 
it  point-blank  at  the  audience  before  him.  You  can 
almost  imagine  you  seethe  ranks  of  "the  great" 
laid  low.  Alas  !  one  fears  that,  instead  of  biting 
the  dust,  those  courtiers,  with  the  king  in  the  midst 
of  them  to  set  the  example,  only  cried  bravo  in  their 
hearts  at  the  skill  of  the  gunner :  — 

I  have  said  more  particularly  that  in  the  world  in  which 
you  live,  —  I  mean  the  com-t,  —  the  disease  of  a  perverted  con- 


192       Classic  French  Course  in  Englhh. 

science  is  far  more  common,  and  far  more  difficult  to  be 
avoided ;  and  I  am  sure  tbat  in  this  you  will  agree  with  me. 
For  it  is  at  the  court  that  the  passions  bear  sway,  that 
desires  are  more  ardent,  that  self-interest  is  keener,  and 
that,  by  infallible  consequence,  self-blinding  is  more  easy, 
and  consciences,  even  the  most  enlightened  and  the  most 
upright,  become  gradually  perverted.  It  is  at  the  court  that 
the  goddess  oi  the  world,  I  mean  fortune,  exercises  over  the 
minds  of  men,  and  in  consequence  over  their  consciences,  a 
more  absolute  dominion.  It  is  at  the  court  that  the  aim  to 
maintain  one's  self,  the  impatience  to  raise  one's  self,  the 
frenzy  to  push  one's  self,  the  fear  of  displeasing,  the  desire 
of  making  one's  self  agreeable,  produce  consciences,  which 
anywhere  else  would  pass  for  monstrous,  but  which,  finding 
themselves  there  authorized  by  custom,  seem  to  have  acquired 
a  right  of  possession  and  of  prescription.  People,  from 
living  at  court,  and  from  no  other  cause  than  having  lived 
there,  are  filled  with  these  errors.  Whatever  uprightness  of 
conscience  they  may  have  brought  thither,  by  breathing  its 
air  and  by  hearing  its  language,  they  are  habituated  to 
iniquity,  they  come  to  have  less  horror  of  vice,  and,  after 
having  long  blamed  it,  a  thousand  times  condemned  it,  they 
at  last  behold  it  with  a  more  favorable  eye,  tolerate  it, 
excuse  it ;  that  is  to  say,  without  observing  what  is  happen- 
ing, they  make  over  their  consciences,  and,  by  insensible 
steps,  from  Christian,  which  they  were,  by  little  and  little 
become  quite  worldly,  and  not  far  from  pagan. 

What  could  surpass  the  adaptedness  of  such 
preaching  as  that  to  the  ueed  of  the  moment  for 
which  it  was  prepared  ?  And  how  did  the  libertine 
French  monarch  contrive  to  escape  the  force  of  truth 
like  the  following,  with  which  the  preacher  immedi- 
ately proceeds  ?  — 


Bourdaloue.  193 

You  would  say,  and  it  really  seems,  that  for  the  court, 
there  are  other  principles  of  religion  than  for  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  that  the  courtier  has  a  riglit  to  make  for  himself 
a  conscience  different  in  kind  and  in  quality  from  that  of 
other  men ;  for  such  is  the  prevailing  idea  of  the  matter,  — 
an  idea  well  sustained,  or  rather  unfortunately  justified,  by 
experience.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  my  dear  hearers,  St.  Paul 
assures  us,  that  there  is  but  one  God  and  one  faith;  and 
woe  to  the  man  who  dividing  Him,  this  one  God,  shall 
represent  Him  as  at  coiu-t  less  an  enemy  to  human  trans- 
gressions than  He  is  outside  of  the  court;  or,  severing  this 
one  faith,  shall  suppose  it  in  the  case  of  one  class  more 
indulgent  than  in  the  case  of  another. 

Bourdaloue,  as  Jesuit,  could  not  but  feel  the 
power  of  Pascal  in  his  -'Provincial  Letters,"  con- 
stantly undermining  the  authority  of  bis  order.  His 
preaching,  as  Sainte-Beuve  well  says,  may  be  con- 
sidered to  have  been,  in  the  preacher's  intention, 
one  prolonged  confutation  of  Pascal's  immortal  in- 
dictment. We  borrow  of  Sainte-Beuve  a  short 
extract  from  Bourdaloue's  sermon  on  slander, 
which  may  serve  as  an  instance  to  show  with  what 
adroitness  the  Jesuit  retorted  anonymously  upon 
the  Jansenist :  — 

Behold  one  of  the  abuses  of  our  time.  Cleans  have  been 
found  to  consecrate  slander,  to  change  it  into  a  virtue,  and 
even  into  one  of  the  holiest  virtues  —  that  means  is,  zeal  for 
tlie  gloiy  of  God.  .  .  .  We  must  humble  tliose  people,  is  the 
ciy;  and  it  is  for  the  good  of  tlie  Church  to  tarnish  their 
reputation  and  to  diminish  their  credit.  That  idea  becomes, 
as  it  were,  a  principle;  the  conscience  is  fashioned  accord- 
ingly, and  there  is  nothing  that  is  not  permissible  to  a. 


194       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

motive  so  noble.  You  fabricate,  you  exaggerate,  you  give 
things  a  poisonous  taint,  you  tell  but  half  the  truth ;  you 
make  j'our  prejudices  stand  for  indisputable  facts ;  you  spread 
abroad  a  hundred  falsehoods;  you  confound  what  is  indi- 
vidual with  what  is  general;  what  one  man  has  said  that  is 
bad,  you  pretend  that  all  have  said;  and  what  many  have 
said  that  is  good,  you  pretend  that  nobody  has  said;  and  all 
that,  once  again,  for  the  glory  of  God.  For  such  direction 
of  the  intention  justifies  all  that.  Such  direction  of  the  in- 
tention will  not  suffice  to  justify  a  prevarication,  but  it  is 
more  than  sufficient  to  justify  calunmy,  provided  only  you 
are  convinced  that  you  are  serving  God  thereby. 

In  conclusion,  w^e  give  a  passage  or  two  of  Bourda- 
loue's  sermon  on  "An  Eternity  of  Woe."  Standi 
orthodoxy  the  reader  will  find  here.  President  Ed- 
wards's discourse,  "  Sinners  in  the  Hands  of  an 
Angry  God,"  is  not  more  unflinching.  But  what  a 
relief  of  contrasted  sweetness  does  Bourdaloue  in- 
terpose in  the  first  part  of  the  ensuing  extract,  to 
set  off  the  grim  and  grisly  horror  of  that  which  is  to 
follow  !  We  draw,  for  this  case,  from  a  translation, 
issued  in  Dublin  under  Roman-Catholic  auspices,  of 
select  sermons  by  Bourdaloue.  The  translator, 
throughout  his  volume,  has  been  highly  loj'al  in 
spirit  toward  the  great  French  preacher ;  but  this 
has  not  prevented  much  enfeebling  by  him  of  the 
style  of  his  original :  — 

There  are  some  just,  fervent,  perfect  souls,  who,  like  chil- 
dren in  the  house  of  the  Heavenly  Father,  strive  to  please 
and  possess  him,  in  order  only  to  possess  and  to  love  him; 
and  who,  incessantly  animated  by  this  unselfish  motive 


Bourdaloue.  195 

fnviolably  adhere  to  his  divine  precepts,  and  lay  it  down  as 
a  rigorous  and  unalterable  rule,  to  obey  the  least  intimation 
of  his  will.  They  serve  him  with  an  affection  entirely  tilial. 
But  there  are  also  dastards,  worldlings,  sinners,  terrestrial 
and  sensual  men,  who  are  scarcely  susceptible  of  any  other 
impressions  th;\n  tho3e  of  the  judgments  and  vengeance 
of  God.  Talk  to  them  of  his  greatness,  of  bis  jx'rfections,  of 
his  benefits,  or  even  of  his  rewards,  and  they  will  hardly 
listen  to  you;  and,  if  they  are  prevailed  upon  to  pay  some 
attention  and  respect  to  your  words,  they  will  sound  in 
their  ears,  but  not  reach  their  hearts.  .  .  .  Therefore,  to 
move  them,  to  stir  them  up,  to  awaken  them  from  the 
lethargic  sleep  with  which  they  are  overwhelmed,  the  thun- 
der of  divine  wrath  and  the  decree  that  condemns  them  to 
eternal  flames  must  be  dinned  into  their  ears:  "  Depart  from 
me,  ye  accursed,  into  everlasting  fire"  (Matt.  xxv.).  Make 
them  consider  attentively,  and  represent  to  them  with  all 
the  force  of  grace,  the  consequences  and  horror  of  this 
word  "  eternal."  .  .  . 

Jt  is  not  imagination,  it  is  pure  roascn  and  intelli- 
gence, that  now  in  Bourdaloue  goes  about  the  busi- 
uess  of  impressing  the  thought  of  the  dreadfulness 
of  an  eternity  of  woe.  The  effect  produced  is  not 
that  of  the  lightning-flash  suddenly  revealing  the 
jaws  agai^e  of  an  unfathomable  abyss  directly  before 
you.  It  is  rather  that  of  steady,  intolerable  press- 
ure gradually  applied  to  crush,  to  annihilate,  the 
soul : — 

.  .  .  Struck  with  horror  at  so  doleful  a  destiny,  I  apply 
to  this  eternity  all  the  powers  of  my  mind;  I  examine  and 
scrutinize  it  in  all  its  parts;  and  I  survey,  as  it  were,  its 
whole  dimensions.  Moreover,  to  express  it  in  more  lively 
colors,  and  to  repi-esent  it  in  my  mind  more  conformably  to 


196       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

the  senses  and  the  human  understanding,  I  borrow  com- 
parisons from  the  Fatliers  of  tlie  Church,  and  I  make,  if  I 
may  so  speak,  the  same  computations.  I  figure  to  myself 
all  the  stars  of  the  firmament;  to  this  innumerable  multi- 
tuJe  I  add  all  the  drops  of  water  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean; 
and  if  this  be  not  enough,  I  reckon,  or  at  least  endeavor  to 
reckon,  all  the  grains  of  sand  on  its  shore.  Then  I  interro- 
gate myself,  I  reason  with  myself,  and  I  put  to  myself  the 
question  —  If  I  had  for  as  many  ages,  and  a  thousand  limes 
as  many,  undergone  torments  in  that  glowing  fire  which  is 
kindled  by  the  breath  of  the  Lord  in  his  anger  to  take 
eternal  vengeance,  would  eternity  be  at  an  end  ?  No ;  and 
why  ?  Because  it  is  eternity,  and  eternity  is  endless.  To 
number  up  the  stars  that  shine  in  the  heavens,  to  count  the 
drops  of  water  that  compose  the  sea,  to  tell  the  grains  of 
sand  that  lie  upon  the  shore,  is  not  absolutely  impossible; 
but  to  measure  in  eternity  the  number  of  days,  of  years,  of 
ages,  is  what  cannot  be  compassed,  because  the  days,  the 
years,  and  the  ages  are  without  number;  or,  to  speak  more 
properly,  because  in  eternity  there  are  neither  days,  nor 
years,  nor  ages,  but  a  single,  endless,  infinite  duration. 

To  this  thought  I  devote  my  mind.  I  imagine  I  see  and 
rove  through  this  same  eternity,  and  discover  no  end,  but 
find  it  to  be  always  a  boundless  tract.  I  imagine  the  wide 
prospect  lies  open  on  all  sides,  and encompasseth me  around; 
that  if  I  rise  up,  or  if  I  sink  down,  or  what  way  soever 
I  turn  my  eyes,  this  eternity  meets  them;  and  that  after  a 
thousand  efforts  to  get  forward,  1  have  made  no  progress, 
but  find  it  still  eternity.  I  imagine  that  after  long  revolu- 
tions of  time,  I  behold  in  the  midst  of  this  eternity  a  damned 
soul,  in  the  same  state,  in  the  same  affliction,  in  the  same 
misery  still;  and  putting  myself  mentally  in  the  place  of 
this  soul,  I  imagine  that  in  this  eternal  punishment  I  feel 
myself  continually  devoured  by  that  fire  which  nothing 
extinguishes;  that  I  continually  shed  those  floods  of  tears 
which  nothing  can  dry  up;  that  I  am  continually  gnawed 


Massillon.  197 

by  the  worm  of  conscience,  which  never  dies;  that  I  con- 
tinually express  my  despair  and  anguish  by  that  gnashing 
of  teeth,  and  those  lamentable  cries,  whicli  never  can  move 
the  compassion  of  God.  This  idea  of  myself,  this  represen- 
tation, amazes  and  terrifies  me.  My  whole  body  shudders, 
I  tremble  with  fear,  I  am  tilled  with  horror,  I  have  the  same 
feelings  as  the  royal  prophet,  when  he  cried,  "Pierce  thou 
my  flesh  with  thy  fear,  for  I  am  afraid  of  thy  judgments." 

That  was  a  touching  tribute  from  the  elder  to  the 
younger  —  tribute  touching,  vvliether  wrung,  per- 
force, from  a  proudly  humble,  or  freel}-  offered  by 
a  simply  magnanimous,  heart  —  when,  like  John  the 
Baptist  speaking  of  Jesus,  Bourdaloue,  growing 
old,  said  of  Massillon,  enjoying  his  swiftly  crescent 
renown  :  "  He  must  increase,  and  I  must  decrease." 
It  was  a  true  presentiment  of  the  comparative  for- 
tune of  fame  that  impended  for  these  two  men.  It 
was  not,  however,  in  the  same  path,  but  in  a  differ- 
ent, that  Massillon  outran  Bourdalone.  In  his  own 
sphere,  that  of  unimpassioned  cppeal  to  reason  and 
to  conscience,  Bourdaloue  is  still  without  a  rival. 
No  one  else,  certainly,  ever  earned,  so  well  as  he, 
the  double  title  which  his  epigrammatic  countrj-men 
were  once  fond  of  bestowing  upon  him,  —  "The 
king  of  preachers,  and  the  preacher  of  kings." 

Jean  Baptiste  Massillox  became  priest  by  his 
own  internal  sense  of  vocation  to  the  office,  against 
the  preference  of  his  family  that  he  should  become, 
like  his  father,  a  notary.  He  seems  to  have  been 
by  nature  sincerely  modest  in  spirit.     He  had  to  be 


198       Classic  French   Course  in  English, 

forced  into  the  publicity  of  a  preaching  career  at 
Paris.  His  ecclesiastical  superior  peremptorily  re- 
quired at  his  hands  the  sacrifice  of  his  wish  to  be 
obscure.  He  at  once  filled  Paris  with  his  fame. 
The  inevitable  consequence  followed.  He  was  sum- 
moned to  preach  before  the  king  at  Versailles. 
Here  he  received,  as  probably  he  deserved,  that 
celebrated  compliment  in  epigram,  from  Louis  XIV.  : 
"  In  hearing  some  preachers,  I  feel  pleased  with 
them ;  in  hearing  you,  I  feel  displeased  with  my- 
self." 

It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed  that  Massillon 
preached  like  a  prophet  Nathan  saying  to  King 
David,  "Thou  art  the  man;"  or  like  a  John  the 
Baptist  saying  to  King  Herod,  "It  is  not  lawful 
for  thee  to  have  her ;  "  or  like  a  John  Knox  de- 
nouncing Queen  Mary.  Massillon,  if  he  was  stern, 
was  suavely  stern.  He  complimented  the  king. 
The  sword  with  which  he  wounded  was  wreathed 
deep  with  flowers.  It  is  difficult  not  to  feel  that 
some  unspoken  understanding  subsisted  between 
the  preacher  and  the  king,  which  permitted  the  king 
to  separate  the  preacher  from  the  man  when  Mas- 
sillon used  that  great  plainness  of  speech  to  his 
sovereign.  The  king  did  not,  however,  often  invite 
this  master  of  eloquence  to  make  the  royal  con- 
science displacent  with  itself.  Bourdaloue  was  osten- 
sibly as  outspoken  as  Massillon  ;  but  somehow  that 
Jesuit  preacher  contented  the  king  to  be  his  hearer 
during  as  many  as  ten  annual  seasons,  against  the 


Massillun.  199 

one  or  two  only  that  Massillon  pi'eached  at  court 
before  Louis. 

The  work  of  Massillon  generally  judged,  though 
according  to  Sainte-Beuve  not  wisely  judged,  to  be 
his  choicest,  is  contained  in  that  volume  of  his 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  '•  Le  Petit  Careme,"  — 
literally,  •'  The  Little  Lent,"  —  a  collection  of  ser- 
mons in'eached  during  a  Lent  before  the  king's  great- 
grandson  and  successor,  youthful  Louis  XV.  These 
sermons  especially  have  given  to  their  author  a 
fame  that  is  his  by  a  title  perhaps  absolutely  imicpie 
in  literature.  "We  know  no  other  instance  of  a 
writer,  limited  in  his  production  strictly  to  sermons, 
who  holds  his  place  in  the  first  rank  of  authorship 
simply  by  virtue  of  supreme  mastership  in  literary 
style. 

Still,  from  the  text  of  his  printed  discourses,  — 
admirable,  exquisite,  ideal  compositions  in  point  of 
foi-m  as  these  are,  —  it  will  be  found  impossible  to 
conceive  adequately  the  living  eloquence  of  Massil- 
lon. There  ai'e  interesting  traditions  of  the  effects 
produced  by  particular  passages  of  particular  ser- 
mons of  his.  When  Louis  XIV.  died,  Massillon 
preached  his  funeral  sermon.  He  began  with  that 
celebrated  single  sentence  of  exordium  which,  it  is 
said,  brought  his  whole  audience,  by  instantaneous, 
simiUtaneous  impulse,  in  a  body  to  their  feet.  The 
modern  reader  will  experience  some  difficult}'  in 
comprehending  at  once  wh}'  that  perfectly  common- 
place-seeming expression  of  the  preacher  should 


200       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

have  produced  an  effect  so  powerful.  The  element 
of  the  opportune,  the  apposite,  the  fit,  is  always 
great  part  of  the  secret  of  eloquence.  Nothing 
more  absolutely  appropriate  can  be  conceived  than 
was  the  sentiment,  the  exclamation,  with  wliich 
Massillon  opened  that  funeral  sermon.  The  image 
and  symbol  of  earthly  greatness,  in  the  person  of 
Louis  XIV.,  had  been  shattered  under  the  touch 
of  iconoclast  death.  "God  only  is  great!"  said 
the  preacher ;  and  all  was  said.  Those  four  short 
words  had  uttered  completely,  and  with  a  simplicity 
incapable  of  being  surpassed,  the  thought  that 
usurped  every  breast.  It  is  not  the  surprise  of 
some  striking  new  thought  that  is  the  most  eloquent 
thmg.  The  most  eloquent  thing  is  the  surprise  of 
that  one  word,  suddenly  spoken,  which  completely 
expresses  some  thought,  present  already  and  upper- 
most, but  silent  till  now,  awaiting  expression,  in  a 
multitude  of  minds.  This  most  eloquent  thing  it 
was  which,  from  Massillon's  lips  that  day,  moved 
his  susceptible  audience  to  rise,  like  one  man,  and 
bow  in  mute  act  of  submission  to  the  truth  of  his 
words.  The  inventive  and  curious  reader  may  exer- 
cise his  ingenuity  at  leisure.  He  will  strive  in  vain 
to  conceive  any  other  exordium  than  Massillon's 
that  would  have  matched  the  occasion  presented. 

There  is  an  admirable  anecdote  of  the  pulpit, 
which  —  though  since  often  otherwise  applied  —  had, 
l^erhaps,  its  first  application  to  Massillon.  Some 
one    congratulating   the  orator,  as   he  came  down 


Massillon.  201 

from  his  pulpit,  on  the  eloquence  of  the  sermon  just 
preached,  that  wise  self-knower  fenced  by  replying, 
"Ah,  the  devil  has  already  apprised  me  of  that!  " 
The  recluse  celibate  preacher  was  one  day  asked 
whence  he  derived  that  marvellous  knowledge  which 
he  displayed  of  the  passious,  the  weaknesses,  the 
follies,  the  sins,  of  human  nature.  "  From  my 
own  heart,"  was  his  reply.  Source  sufficient,  per- 
haps ;  but  from  the  confessional,  too,  one  may  con- 
fidently add. 

There  is  proba))ly  no  better  brief ,*  quotable  pas- 
sage to  represeut  Massillon  at  his  imaginative  highest 
in  eloquence,  thau  that  most  celebrated  one  of  all, 
occurrmg  toward  the  close  of  his  memorable  sermon 
on  the  "  Fewness  of  the  P>lecl."  The  effect  at- 
tendmg  the  delivery  of  this  passage,  on  both  of 
the  two  recorded  occasions  on  which  tiie  sermon  was 
preached,  is  reported  to  have  been  remarkable. 
The  manner  of  the  orator  —  downcast,  as  with  the 
inward  oppression  of  tlie  same  solemnity  that  he, 
m  speaking,  cast  like  a  spell  on  tlie  audience — in- 
definitely heightened  the  magical  power  of  the  awful 
conception  r  xcited.  Not  Bourdaloue  himself,  with 
that  pveterr..\tural  skill  of  his  to  piobe  the  conscience 
of  man  to  its  innermost  secret,  could  have  exceeded 
the  heart-searching  rigor  with  which,  in  the  earlier 
pait  of  the  discourse,  Massillon  had  put  to  the  rack 
the  quivering  consciences  of  his  hearers.  The  ter- 
rors of  the  Lord,  the  shadows  of  the  world  to  come, 
were  thus  already  on  all  hearts.  So  much  as  this, 
14 


202       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Bourdaloue,  too,  with  his  incomparable  dialectic, 
could  have  accomplished.  But  there  immediately 
follows  a  culmination  in  power,  such  as  was  dis- 
tinctly beyond  the  height  of  Bourdaloue.  Genius 
must  be  superadded  to  talent  if  you  would  have  the 
supreme,  either  in  poetry  or  in  eloquence.  There 
was  an  extreme  point  in  Massillon's  discourse  at 
which  mere  reason,  having  done,  and  done  terribly, 
its  utmost,  was  fain  to  confess  that  it  could  not  go 
a  single  step  farther.  At  that  extreme  point,  sud- 
denl}',  inexhaustible  imagination  took  up  the  part  of 
exhausted  reason.  Reason  had  made  men  afraid  ; 
imagination  now  a][)pallcd  them.     Massillon  said:  — 

I  confine  myself  to  you,  my  brethren,  who  are  gathered 
here.  I  speak  no  longer  of  the  rest  of  mankind.  I  look  at 
you  as  if  you  were  the  only  ones  on  the  earth;  and  here 
IS  the  thought  that  seizes  me,  and  that  terrifies  me.  I  make 
the  supposition  that  this  is  your  last  hour,  and  the  end  of 
the  world;  that  the  heavens  are  about  to  open  above  your 
heads,  that  Jesus  Christ  is  to  appear  in  his  glory  in  the 
midst  of  this  sanctuary,  and  that  you  are  gathered  here  only 
to  wait  for  him,  and  as  trembling  criminals  on  whom  is  to 
be  pronounced  either  a  sentence  of  grace  or  a  decree  of  eter- 
nal death.  For,  vainly  do  you  flatter  yourselves;  you  will 
die  such  in  character  as  you  are  to-day.  All  those  impulses 
toward  change  with  which  you  amuse  yourselves,  you  will 
amuse  yourselves  with  them  down  to  the  bed  of  death.  Such 
IS  the  experience  of  all  generations.  The  only  thing  new 
you  will  then  find  in  yourselves  will  be,  perhaps,  a  reckoning 
a  trifle  larger  than  that  which  you  would  to-day  have  to  ren- 
der; and  according  to  what  you  would  be  if  you  were  this 
moment  to  be  judged,  you  may  almost  determine  what  will 
befall  you  at  the  termination  of  your  life. 


Massillon.  203 

Now  I  ask  you,  and. I  ask  it  smitten  with  terror,  not 
separating  in  this  matter  my  lot  from  yours,  and  putting 
myself  into  the  same  frame  of  mind  into  which  I  desire  you 
to  come,  —  I  ask  you,  then.  If  Jesus  Christ  were  to  appear  in 
this  sanctuary,  in  the  midst  of  this  assembly,  the  most  illus- 
trious in  the  world,  to  pass  judgment  on  us,  to  draw  the 
dread  line  of  distinc.icn  between  the  goats  and  the  sheep, 
do  you  believe  that  the  majority  of  all  of  us  who  are  here 
would  be  set  on  his  right  hand  ?  Do  you  believe  that  things 
woiUd  even  be  equal  ?  Xay,  do  you  believe  there  would  be 
found  so  many  as  the  ten  righteous  men  whom  anciently  the 
Lord  could  not  tind  in  five  whole  cities  ?  I  put  the  question 
to  you,  but  you  know  not;  I  know  not  myself.  Thou  only, 
O  my  God,  knowest  tliose  that  belong  to  thee!  But  if  we 
know  not  those  who  belong  to  him,  at  least  we  know  that 
sinners  do  not  belong  to  him.  Now,  of  what  classes  of  per- 
sons do  the  professing  Christians  in  this  assembly  consist  ? 
Titles  and  dignities  must  be  coimted  for  naught;  of  these 
you  shall  be  stripped  before  Jesus  Christ.  Who  make  up 
this  assembly  ?  Sinners,  in  great  number,  who  do  not  wish 
to  be  converted;  in  still  greater  number,  sinners  who  would 
like  it,  but  who  put  off  their  conversion ;  many  others  who 
would  be  converted,  only  to  relapse  into  sin ;  finally,  a  mul- 
titude who  think  they  have  no  need  of  conversion.  You 
have  thus  made  up  the  company  of  the  reprobate.  Cut  off 
these  four  classes  of  sinners  from  this  sacred  assembly,  for 
they  will  be  cut  off  from  it  at  tlie  great  day !  Stand  forth 
now,  ye  righteous  I  where  are  you  '?  Keranant  of  Israel,  pass 
to  the  right  hand !  True  wheat  of  Jesus  Christ,  disengage 
yourselves  from  this  chaff,  doomed  to  the  fire  I  O  God  I  where 
are  thine  elect  ?  and  what  remains  there  for  thy  portion  ? 

Brethren,  our  perdition  is  well-nigh  assured,  and  we  do 
not  give  it  a  thought.  Even  if  in  that  dread  separation 
which  one  day  shall  be  made,  there  were  to  be  but  a  single 
sinner  out  of  this'  assembly  found  on  the  side  of  the  repro- 
bate, and  if  a  voice  from  heaven  should  come  to  give  us 


204       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

assurance  of  the  fact  in  this  sanctuary,  without  pointing  out 
the  person  intended,  who  among  us  would  not  fear  tliat  he 
might  himself  be  the  wretch  ?  Who  among  us  would  not 
at  once  recoil  upon  his  conscience,  to  inquiie  whether  his 
sins  had* not  deserved  that  p<;nalty  ?  Who  among  us  would 
not,  seized  with  dismay,  ask  of  Jesus  Christ,  as  did  once  the 
apostles,  "  Lord,  is  it  I  ?  " 

What  is  there  wanting  in  snch  eloquence  as  the 
foregoing?  Wherein  lies  its  deficiency  of  power  to 
penetrate  and  subdue?  Voltaire  avowed  that  lie 
fi'Hind  the  sermons  of  Massillon  to  he  among  "the 
most  agreeable  books  we  have  in  our  language.  I 
love,"  he  went  on,  "  to  have  them  read  to  uie  at 
table."  There  are  things  in  Massillon  that  Voltaire 
should  not  have  delighted  to  read,  or  to  hear xead,  — 
things  that  should  have  made  him  wince  and  revolt, 
if  they  did  not  make  him  yield  and  be  converted. 
Was  there  fault  in  the  preacher?  Did  he  preach 
with  professional,  rather  than  with  personal,  zeal? 
Did  his  hearers  feel  themselves  secretly  acquitted 
by  the  man,  at  the  self-same  moment  at  which  they 
were  openly  condemned  by  the  preacher?  It  is  im- 
possible to  say.  But  Massillon 's  virtue  was  not 
lofty  and  regal ;  however  it  may  have  been  free  from 
just  reproach.  He  was  somewhat  too  capable  of 
compliance.  He  was  made  bishop  of  Clermont,  and 
his  promotion  cost  him  the  anguish  of  having  to 
help  consecrate  a  scandalously  luifit  candidate  as 
archbishop  of  Cambray.  Massillon's,  however,  is 
a  fair,  if  not  an  absolutely  spotless,  fame.     Hierarch 


FSnelon.  205 

Rs  he  was^  and  orthodox  Catholic,  this  most  elegant 
of  eloquent  orators  had  a  liberal  strain  in  his  blood 
which  allied  him  politically  with  the  ''  philosophers  " 
of  the  time  succeeding.  He,  with  F6nelon,  and 
perhaps  with  Racine,  makes  seem  less  abrupt  the 
transition  in  France  from  the  age  of  absolutism  to 
the  age  of  revolt  and  final  revolution.  There  is 
distinct  advance  in  Massillon,  and  advance  more 
than  is  accounted  for  by  his  somewhat  later  time, 
toward  the  easier  modern  spirit  in  church  and  in 
state,  from  the  high,  unbending  austerity  of  that 
antique  pontifif  and  minister,  Bossuet. 


XIII. 

FENELON.  ^ 

1651-1715. 

If  Bossuet  is  to  Frenchmen  a  synonym  for  sub- 
limitj',  no  less  to  them  is  F^uelon  a  synonym  for 
saintliness.  From  the  French  point  of  view,  one 
might  say,  "the  sublime  Bossuet,"  "the  saintly 
F6nelon,"  somewhat  as  one  says,  "the  learned  Sel- 
den,"  "the  judicious  Hooker."  It  is  as  much  a 
French  delight  to  idealize  F^nelon  an  archangel 
Raphael,  affable  and  mild,  as  it  is  to  glorify  Bossuet 
a  Michael  in  majesty  and  power. 


206       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

But  saintliness  of  character  was  in  F^nelon  com- 
mended to  the  world  by  equal  charm  of  person  and 
of  genius.  The  words  of  Milton  describing  Eve 
might  be  applied,  with  no  change  but  that  of  gen- 
der, to  Fenelou.  both  the  exterior  and  the  interior 
man  :  — 

Grace  was  in  all  his  steps,  heaven  in  his  eye, 
In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love. 

The  consent  is  general  among  those  who  saw 
F^nelon,  and  have  left  behind  them  their  testimony, 
that  alike  in  person,  in  character,  and  in  genius,  he 
was  such  as  we  thus  describe  him. 

Twice,  in  his  youth,  he  was  smitten  to  the  heart 
with  a  feeling  of  vocation  to  be  a  missionary.  Both 
times  he  was  thwarted  by  the  intervention  of  friends. 
The  second  time,  he  wrote  disclosing  his  half- 
romantic  aspiration  in  a  glowing  letter  of  confldence 
ana  friendship  to  Bossuet,  his  senior  by  many  years, 
but  not  yet  become  famous.  Young  F^nelon's  friend 
Bossuet  was  destined  later  to  prove  a  bitter  antago- 
nist, almost  a  personal  foe. 

Until  he  was  forty-two  years  old,  Francois  F^ne- 
lon  lived  in  comparative  retirement,  nourishing  his 
genius  with  study,  with  contemplation,  with  choice 
society.  He  experimented  in  writing  verse.  Not 
succeeding  to  his  mind,  he  turned  to  prose  composi- 
tion, and  leading  the  way,  in  a  new  species  of 
literature,  for  Rousseau,  for  Chateaubriand,  for 
Lamartine,  and  for  many  others,  to  follow,  went  on 


FSnelon.  207 

writing  what,  ia  ceasing  to  be  verse,  did  not  cease 

to  be  poetry. 

The  great  world  will  presently  involve  Fenelon  in 
the  currents  of  history.  Louis  XIV^.,  grown  old, 
and  become  as  selfishly  greedy  now  of  personal  sal- 
vation as  all  his  life  he  has  been  selfishly  greedy  of 
personal  glory,  seeks  that  object  of  his  soul  by 
serving  the  church  in  the  wholesale  conversion  of 
Protestants.  He  revokes  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  which 
had  secured  religious  toleration  for  the  realm,  and 
proceeds  to  dragoon  the  Huguenots  into  conformity 
with  the  Roman-Catholic  church.  The  reaction  in 
public  sentiment  against  such  rigors  grew  a  cry  that 
had  to  be  silenced.  Fenelon  was  selected  to  visit 
the  heretic  provinces,  and  win  them  to  willing  sub- 
mission. He  stipulated  that  every  form  of  coercion 
should  cease,  and  went  to  conquer  all  with  love. 
His  success  was  remarkable.  But  not  even  Fenelon 
quite  escaped  the  infection  of  violent  zeal  for  the 
Church.  It  seems  not  to  be  given  to  any  man  to 
rise  wholly  superior  to  the  spirit  of  the  world  in 
which  he  lives. 

The  lustre  of  Fenelon's  name,  luminous  from  the 
triumphs  of  his  mission  among  the  Protestants,  was 
sufficient  to  justify  the  choice  of  this  man,  a  man 
l)oth  b}'  nature  and  by  culture  so  ideally  formed  for 
the  office  as  was  he,  to  be  tutor  to  the  heir  pro- 
spective of  the  French  monarchy.  The  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  grandson  to  Louis  XIV.,  was  accord- 
ingly put  under  the  charge  of  F6nelon  to  be  trained 


208       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

for  future  kingship.  Never,  probably,  in  the  his- 
tory of  mankind,  has  there  occurred  a  case  in  which 
the  victory  of  a  teacher  could  be  more  illustrious 
than  actually  was  the  victory  of  Fenelon  as  teacher 
to  this  scion  of  the  house  of  Bourbon.  We  shall 
be  giving  our  readers  a  relishable  taste  of  St.  Simon, 
the  celebrated  memoir-writer  of  the  age  of  Louis 
XIV.,  if  out  of  the  portrait  in  words,  drawn  by  him 
from  the  life,  of  Fenelon's  princely  pupil,  we  trans- 
fer here  a  few  strong  lines  to  our  pages.  St.  Simon 
says :  — 

In  the  first  place,  it  must  be  said  that  Monseigneur  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy  had  by  nature  a  most  formidable  dispo- 
sition. He  was  passionate  to  tlie  extent  of  wishing  to  dasli 
to  pieces  liis  cloclis  when  tliey  struck  tlie  hour  which  called 
him  to  what  he  did  not  like,  and  of  flying  into  the  utmost 
rage  against  the  rain  if  it  interfered  with  what  he  wanted  to 
do.  Resistance  threw  him  into  paroxysms  of  fury.  I  speak 
of  what  I  have  often  witnessed  in  his  early  youth.  More- 
over, an  ungovernable  impulse  drove  him  into  whatever 
indulgence,  bodily  or  mental,  was  forbidden  him.  His  sar- 
casm was  so  much  the  more  cruel  as  it  was  witty  and 
piquant,  and  as  it  seized  with  precision  upon  every  point 
open  to  ridicule.  All  this  was  sharpened  by  a  vivacity  of 
body  and  of  mind  tliat  proceeded  to  the  degree  of  impetuosity, 
and  that  during  his  early  days  never  permitted  him  to  learn 
any  thing  except  by  doing  two  things  at  once.  Every  form 
of  pleasure  he  loved  with  a  violent  avidity,  and  all  this  with 
a  pride  and  a  haughtiness  impossible  to  describe;  danger- 
ously wise,  moreover,  to  judge  of  men  and  things,  and  to 
detect  the  weak  point  in  a  train  of  reasoning,  and  to  reason 
himself  more  cogently  and  more  profoundly  than  his  teach- 
ei-s.    But  at  the  same  time,  as  soon  as  his  passion  was  spent, 


FSnelon.  209 

re.ason  resumed  her  sway;  lie  felt  his  faults,  he  acknowledged 
them,  and  sometimes  with  such  chagrin  that  his  rage  was 
rekindled.  A  mind  lively,  alert,  iienetrating,  stiffening 
itself  against  obstacles,  excelling  literally  in  every  thing. 
The  prodigy  is,  that  in  a  very  short  time  piety  and  grace 
made  of  him  a  different  being,  and  transformed  faults  so 
numerous  and  so  formidable  into  virtues  exactly  opposite. 

St.  Simon  attributes  to  Fenelon  "every  virtue 
under  heaven;"  but  his  way  was  to  give  to  God 
rather  than  to  man  the  praise  of  the  remarkable 
change  which,  during  Fenelon's  charge  of  the  Duke 
of  Burgundy,  came  over  the  character  of  the  prince. 

The  grandfatlier  survived  the  giandson  ;  uud  it 
was  never  put  to  the  stern  proof  of  historical  ex- 
perimeut,  whether  Fenelon  had  indeed  turned  out 
one  Bourbon  entirely  different  from  all  the  other 
membei-s,  earlier  or  later,  of  that  royal  line. 

Before,  however,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  thus 
snatched  away  from  the  perilous  prospect  of  a 
throne,  his  beloved  teacher  was  parted  from  him, 
not  indeed  by  death,  but  by  what,  to  the  archbishop's 
susceptible  and  suffering  spirit,  was  worse  than  death, 
—  by  "  disgrace."  The  disgrace  was  such  as  has 
ever  since  engaged  for  its  subject  the  interest,  the 
sympathy',  and  the  admiration,  of  mankind.  Fene- 
lon lost  the  royal  favor.  That  was  all,  —  for  the 
piesent,  —  but  that  was  much.  He  was  banished 
from  court,  and  he  ceased  to  be  preceptor  to  the 
Duke  of  Bui-gnndy.  The  king,  in  signal  severity, 
used  his  own  hand  to  strike  Fenelon's  name  from 


210        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

the  list  of  the  household  of  his  grandson  and  heir. 
The  archbishop  —  for  F6uelou  had  previously  been 
made  archbishop  of  Cambray  —  returned  into  his 
diocese  as  into  an  exile.  But  his  cup  of  humiliation 
was  by  no  means  full.  Bossuet  will  stain  his  own 
glory  by  following  his  exiled  former  pupil  and 
friend,  with  hostile  pontifical  rage,  to  crush  him  in 
his  retreat. 

The  occasion  was  a  woman,  a  woman  with  the 
charm  of  genius  and  of  exalted  character,  a  Chris- 
tian, a  saint,  but  a  mystic —  it  was  Madame  Gu3'on. 
Madame  Guyon  taught  that  it  was  possible  to  love 
God  for  himself  alone,  purely  and  disinterestedly. 
Fenelon  received  the  doctrine,  and  Madame  Guyon 
was  patronized  by  Madame  de  Maintenon.  Bossuet 
scented  heresy.  He  was  too  much  a  "  natural  man  " 
to  understand  Madame  Guj'on.  The  king  was  like 
the  prelate,  his  minister,  in  spirit,  and  in  consequent 
incapacity.  It  was  resolved  that  Fenelon  must  con- 
demn Madame  Guyon.  But  Fenelon  would  not. 
He  was  very  gentle,  ver}-  conciliatory,  but  in  fine 
he  would  not.  Controversy  ensued,  haughty,  magis- 
terial, domineering,  on  the  part  of  Bossuet ;  on  the 
part  of  Fenelon,  meek,  docile,  suasive.  The  world 
wondered,  and  watched  the  duel.  Fenelon  finally 
did  what  king  James's  translators  misleadingly 
make  Job  wish  that  his  adversary  had  done,  —  he 
wrote  a  book,  "The  Maxims  of  the  Saints."  In 
this  book,  he  sought  to  show  that  the  accepted,  and 
even  canonized,  teachers  of  the  Church  had  taught 


FSnelon.  211 

the  doctrine  for  which,  in  his  own  case  and  in  the 
case  of  Madame  Guyon,  condemnation  was  now 
invoked.  Bossuet  was  poi)e  at  Paris ;  and  he,  in 
full  presence,  denounced  to  the  monarch  the  heresy 
of  F^nelon.  At  this  moment  of  crisis  for  Fenelon, 
it  happened  that  news  was  brought  him  of  the  burn- 
ing of  his  mansion  at  Cambray  with  all  his  books 
and  manuscripts.  It  will  alvva3-s  be  remembered 
that  Fenelon  only  said :  '•  It  is  better  so  than  if  it 
had  been  the  cottage  of  a  poor  laboring-man." 

Madame  de  Maintenon,  till  now  his  friend,  with 
perfectly  frigid  facility  separated  herself  from  the 
side  of  the  accused.  The  controversy  was  canied 
to  Rome,  where  at  length  F^nelon's  book  was  con- 
demned, —  condemned  mildl}',  but  condemned.  The 
pope  is  said  to  have  made  the  remark  that  Fenelon 
erred  by  loving  God  too  much,  and  Fenelon' s  an- 
tagonists by  loving  then*  fellow-man  too  little. 
Fenelon  bowed  to  the  authority  of  the  Church,  and 
meekly  in  his  own  cathedral  confessed  his  error. 
It  was  a  logical  thing  for  him,  as  loyal  Catholic,  to 
do ;  and  he  did  it  with  a  beautiful  grace  of  humility. 
The  Protestant  spirit,  however,  rebels  on  his  behalf, 
and  finds  it  difficult  even  to  admire  the  manner  in 
which  was  done  by  him  a  thing  that  seems  so  unfit 
to  have  been  done  by  him  at  all.  Bossuet  did  not 
long  survive  his  inglorious  triumph  over  so  much 
snnctity  of  personal  character,  over  so  much  diflScult 
and  beautiful  height  of  doctrinal  and  practical  in- 
struction to  virtue.     Fenelon  seems  to  have  been 


212       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

reported  as  preaching  a  funeral  sermon  on  the  dead 
prelate.  "  I  have  wept  and  prayed,"  he  wrote  to  a 
friend,  "  for  this  old  instructor  of  my  youth  ;  but  it 
is  not  true  that  I  celebrated  his  obsequies  in  my 
cathedral,  and  preached  his  funeral  sermon.  Such 
affectation,  you  know,  is  foreign  to  my  nature." 
The  iron  must  have  gone  deep,  to  wring  from  that 
gentle  bosom  even  so  much  cry  as  this  of  wounded 
feeling. 

It  is  hard  to  tell  what  might  now  have  befallen 
F^nelon,  in  the  way  of  good  fortune,  —  he  might 
even  have  been  recalled  to  court,  and  re-installed 
in  his  office  of  tutor  to  the  prince,  —  had  not  a  sin- 
ister incident,  not  to  have  been  looked  for,  at  an 
inopportune  moment  occuired.  The  "  Telemachus  " 
appeared  in  print,  and  kindled  a  sudden  flame  of 
popular  feeling  which  instantly  spread  in  universal 
conflagration  over  the  face  of  Europe.  This  com- 
position of  F^nelon's  the  author  had  written  to 
convey,  under  a  form  of  quasi-poetical  fiction,  les- 
sons of  wisdom  in  government  to  the  mind  of  his 
royal  pupil.  The  existence  of  the  manuscript  book 
would  seem  to  have  been  intended  to  be  a  secret 
from  the  king,  —  indeed,  from  almost  every  one, 
except  the  pupil  himself  for  whose  use  it  was  made. 
But  a  copyist  proved  false  to  his  trust,  and  furnished 
a  copy  of  "Telemachus  "  to  a  printer  in  Holland, 
who  lost  no  time  in  publishing  a  book  so  likely  to 
soil.  But  the  sale  of  the  book  surpassed  all  expec- 
tation.    Holland  not  only,  but  Belgium,  Germany, 


F&nelon.  213 

France,  and  England  mnltiplied  copies,  as  fast  as 
they  could  ;  still,  Europe  could  not  get  copies  as  fast 
as  it  wanted  them. 

The  secret  of  such  popularity  did  not  lie  simply  in 
the  literary  merits  of  "  Telemachus."  It  lay  more  in 
a  certain  interpretation  that  the  book  was  supposed  to 
bear.  "Telemachus  "  was  understood  to  be  a  covert 
criticism  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  of  the  principle  of 
absolute  monarchy  embodied  in  him.  This  imputed 
intention  of  the  book  could  not  fail  to  become  known 
at  Versailles.  The  result,  of  course,  was  fatal, 
and  finally  fatal,-  to  the  prospects,  whatever  these 
may  have  been,  of  Fenelon's  restoration  to  favor  at 
court.  The  archbishop  thenceforward  was  left  to 
do  in  comparative  obscurity  the  duties  of  his  episco- 
pal office  in  his  diocese  of  Cambray.  He  devoted 
himself,  with  exemplary  and  touching  fidelity,  to  the 
interests  of  his  flock,  loving  them  and  loved  by  them, 
till  he  died.  It  was  an  entirely  worthy  and  ade- 
quate employment  of  his  powers.  The  only  abate- 
ment needful  from  the  praise  to  be  bestowed  upon 
liis  behavior  in  this  pastoral  relation  is,  that  he 
suffered  himself  sometimes  to  think  of  his  position 
as  one  of  "disgrace."  His  reputation  meantime 
for  holy  character  and  conduct  was  European.  II is 
palace  at  Cambray,  hospitably  open  ever  to  the 
resort  of  suffering  need,  indeed  almost  his  whole 
diocese,  Ij'ing  on  the  frontier  of  France,  was,  by 
mutual  consent  of  contending  armies,  treated  in  war 
as  a  kind  of  matual  inviolable  ground,  invested  with 


214       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

privilege  of  sanctuary.  It  was  an  instructive  example 
of  the  serene  and  beautiful  ascendency  sometimes 
divinely  accorded  to  illustrious  personal  goodness. 

There  had  been  a  moment,  even  subsequently  to 
the  affair  ('f  the  "  Telemachus  "  publication,  when 
it  looked  as  if,  after  long  delay,  a  complete  worldly 
triumph  for  F^nelon  was  assured,  and  was  near. 
The  father  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  died,  and 
nothing  then  seemed  to  stand  between  F6nelon's 
late  pupil  and  the  throne,  — nothing  but  the  preca- 
rious life  of  an  aged  monarch,  visibly  approaching 
the  end.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy,  through  all 
changes,  had  remained  unchangingly  fast  in  his 
affectionate  loyalty  to  F^nelon.  Sternly  forbidden, 
by  the  jealous  and  watchful  king,  his  grandfather, 
to  communicate  with  his  old  teacher,  he  yet  had 
found  means  to  send  to  Fenelon,  from  time  to  time, 
reassuring  signals  of  his  trust  and  his  love.  Fene- 
lon was  now,  in  all  eyes,  the  predestined  prime" 
minister  of  a  new  reign  about  to  commence.  Through 
devoted  friends  of  h".„  own,  near  to  the  person  of  the 
prince  at  court,  Fenelon  sent  minutes  of  advice  to 
his  pupil,  which  outlined  a  whole  beneficent  polic}' 
of  liberal  monarchical  rule.  A  new  day  seemed 
dawning  for  France.  The  horrible  reaction  of  the 
Regency  and  of  Louis  XV.  might,  perhaps,  have 
been  averted,  and,  with  that  spared  to  France,  the 
Ivevolntion  itself  might  have  been  accomplished  with- 
out the  Revolution.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  The 
Duke  of  Burgundy  first  buried  his  wife,  and  then, 


FSnelon.  215 

within  a  few  days,  followed  her  himself  to  the 
grave.  He  died  sincerely  rejoicing  that  God  had 
taken  him  awa^^  from  the  dread  responsibility  of 
reigning. 

"All  my  ties  are  broken,"  monrned  Fenelou ; 
"  there  is  no  longer  any  thing  to  bind  me  to  the 
earth."  In  truth,  the  teacher  survived  his  pupil  but 
two  or  three  years.  When  he  died,  his  sovereign, 
gloomy  with  well-grounded  apprehension  for  the 
future  of  his  realm,  said,  with  tardy  revival  of  rec- 
ognition for  the  virtue  that  had  perished  in  FSnelon  : 
"Here  was  a  man  who  could  have  sei'ved  us  well 
under  the  disasters-  ly  wliich  m}'  kingdom  is  about 
to  be  assailed  ! ' ' 

F^nelon's  literar3'  productions  are  various ;  but 
they  all  have  the  common  character  of  being  works 
written  for  the  sake  of  life,  rather  than  for  the  sake 
of  literature.  They  were  inspired  each  by  a  practi- 
cal purpose,  and  adapted  each  to  a  particular  occa- 
sion. His  treatise  on  the  "Education  of  Girls" 
was  written  for  the  use  of  a  mother  who  desired 
instiniction  on  the  topic  from  Fenelon.  His  argu- 
ment on  the  ' '  Being  of  a  God  * '  was  prepared  as  a 
duty  of  his  preceptorship  to  the  prince.  But  the 
one  book  of  Fenelon  which  was  an  historical  event 
when  it  appeared,  and  which  stands  an  indestructible 
classic  in  literature,  is  the  "  Teleraachus."  It  re- 
mains for  us  briefly  to  give  some  idea  of  this  book. 

Tlie  first  thuig  to  be  said  is,  that  those  are  ir.io- 
taken  who  suppose  themselves  to  have  obtained  a 


216         Classic  French  Course  in  EnglLh. 

true  idea  of  "  Tclemaclius "  from  having  partly 
read  it  at  school,  as  an  exercise  in  French.  The 
essence  of  the  work  lies  beyond  those  few  opening 
pages  to  which  the  exploration  of  school-boys  and 
school-girls  is  generally  limited.  This  masterpiece 
of  Fenelon  is  much  more  than  a  charming  piece  of 
romantic  and  sentimental  poetry  in  prose.  It  is 
a  kind  of  epic,  indeed,  like  the  "  Odyssey,"  only 
written  in  rhythmical  prose  instead  of  rhythmical 
verse;  but,  unlike  the  "Odysse}^"  it  is  an  id^'Uic 
epic  written  with  an  ulterior  purpose  of  moral  and 
political  didactics.  It  was  designed  as  a  manual  of 
instruction,  —  instruction  made  delightful  to  a  prince, 
—  to  inculcate  the  duties  incumbent  on  a  sovereign. 
Telemachus,  our  readers  will  remember,  was  the 
son  of  Ulysses.  Fenelon's  story  relates  the  adven- 
tures encountered  by  Telemachus,  in  search  for  his 
father,  so  long  delayed  on  his  return  from  Troy  to 
Ithaca.  Telemachus  is  imagined  by  Fenelon  to  be 
attended  by  Minerva,  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  masked 
from  his  recognition,  as  well  as  from  the  recog- 
nition of  others,  under  the  form  of  an  old  man. 
Minerva,  of  course,  constantly  imparts  the  wisest 
counsel  to  young  Telemachus,  who  has  his  weak- 
nesses, as  had  the  young  Duke  of  Burgundy,  but 
who  is  essentially  well-disposed,  as  Fenelon  hoped 
his  royal  pupil  would  finally  turn  out  to  be.  Nothing 
can  exceed  the  urbanity  and  grace  with  which  the 
delicate  business  is  conducted  by  Fenelon,  of  teach- 
ing a  bad  prince,  with  a  very  bad  example  set  him 


FSnelon.  217 

by  his  grandfather,  to  be  a  good  king.  The  style 
in  which  the  story  is  told,  and  in  which  the  ad^'ice 
is  insinuated,  is  exquisite,  is  beyond  praise.  The 
"  soft  delicious  "  stream  of  sound  runs  on,  as  from 
a  fountain,  and  like  "  linked  sweetness  long  drawn 
out."  Never  had  prose  a  flow  of  melody  more  lui;- 
eious.  It  is  perpetual  ravishment  to  th?  ear.  The 
invention,  too,  of  nicident  is  fruitful,  while  the  land- 
scape and  coloring  are  magical  for  beauty.  We  give 
a  few  extracts,  to  be  read  with  that  application  to 
Louis  XIV.,  and  the  state  of  France,  in  mind,  which, 
when  the  book  was  first  printed,  gave  it  such  an 
exciting  interest  in  the  eyes  of  Europe.  Tele- 
machus,  after  the  manner  of  jEneas  to  Queen  Dido, 
is  relating  to  the  goddess  Calypso,  into  whose  island 
he  has  come,  the  adventures  that  have  previously 
befallen  him.  He  says  that  he,  with  Mentor  (Mi- 
nerva in  disguise),  found  himself  in  Crete.  Mentor 
had  been  there  before,  and  was  ready  to  tell  Tele- 
machus  all  about  the  country.  Telemachus  was 
naturally  interested  to  learn  respecting  the  Cretan 
monarchy.  Mentor,  he  says,  informed  him  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

The  king's  authority  over  the  subject  is  absohite,  but  the 
authority  of  the  law  is  absolute  over  him.  His  power  to  do 
good  io  unlimited,  but  he  is  restrained  from  doing  ovil.  The 
laws  have  put  the  people  into  his  hands,  as  the  most  valuabio 
deposit,  upon  condition  that  he  shall  treat  them  as  his  chil- 
dren. It  is  the  intent  of  the  law  that  the  wisdom  and  equity 
of  one  man  shall  be  the  happiness  of  many,  and  not  that  the 
wretchedness  and  slavery  of  many  should  gratify  the  pride 
15 


218        Classic  French  Course  in  Engliah. 

and  luxury  of  one.  The  king  ouglit  to  possess  nothing  more 
than  the  subject,  except  what  is  necessary  to  alleviate  the 
fatigue  of  his  station,  and  impress  upon  the  minds  of  the 
people  a  reverence  of  that  authority  by  which  tlie  laws  are 
executed.  Moreover,  the  king  should  indulge  himself  less, 
as  well  in  ease  as  in  pleasure,  and  should  be  less  disposed  to 
the  pomp  and  the  pride  of  life  than  any  other  man.  He 
ought  not  to  be  distinguished  from  the  rest  cf  mankind 
by  the  greatness  of  his  wealth,  or  the  vanity  of  his  enjoy- 
ments, but  by  superior  wisdom,  more  heroic  virtue,  and  more 
splendid  glory.  Abroad  he  ought  to  be  the  defender  of  his 
country,  by  commanding  her  armies;  and  at  home  the  judge 
of  his  people,  distributing  justice  among  them,  improving 
their  morals,  and  increasing  their  felicity.  It  is  not  for  him- 
self that  the  gods  have  intrusted  him  with  royalty.  He-  is 
exalted  above  individuals,  only  that  he  may  be  the  servant 
of  the  people.  To  the  public  he  owes  all  his  time,  all  his 
attention,  and  all  his  love;  he  deserves  dignity  only  in  pro- 
portion as  he  gives  up  private  enjoyments  for  the  public 
good. 

Pretty  sound  doctrine,  the  foregoing,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  duties  devolving  on  a  king.  The 
"  paternal  "  idea,  to  be  sure,  of  government  is  in  it ; 
but  there  is  the  idea,  too,  of  limited  or  constitutional 
monarchy.  The  spirit  of  just  and  liberal  political 
thought  had,  it  seems,  not  been  wholly  extinguished, 
even  at  the  court,  by  that  oppression  of  mind  —  an 
oppression  seldom,  if  ever,  in  liuman  history  ex- 
ceeded —  which  was  enforced  under  the  unmitigated 
absolutism  of  Louis  XIV.  The  literature  that,  with 
Montesquieu,  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  the  Encyclopae- 
dists, prepared  the  Revolution,  had  already  begun 
virtually  to    be  written  when    F^nelon    wrote    his 


FSnelon.  219 

"  Telemachus."  It  is  easy  to  see  why  the  fame  of 
F^nelon  should  by  exception  have  been  clear  even 
to  the  hottest  infidel  haters  of  that  ecclesiastical 
hierarchy  to  which  the  arehbisliop  of  Cambray  him- 
self belonged.  This  lover  of  libeily,  this  gentle 
rebuker  of  kings,  was  of  the  free-thinkers,  at  least 
in  the  sympathy  of  political  thought.  Nay,  the 
Revolution  itself  is  foreshown  in  a  remarkable 
glimpse  of  conjectural  prophecy  which  occurs  in  the 
"Telemachus."  Idomeneus  is  a  headstrong  king, 
whom  Mentor  is  made  by  the  author  to  reprove  and 
instruct,  for  the  Duke  of  Burgundy's  benefit.  To 
Idomeneus  —  a  character  taken,  and  not  unplausibly 
taken,  to  have  been  suggested  to  Fenelon  by  the 
example  of  Louis  XIV.  —  to  this  imaginary  counter- 
part of  the  reigning  monarch  of  France,  Mentor 
holds  the  following  language.  How  could  the  sequel 
of  Bourbon  despotism  in  France  —  a  sequel  sus- 
pended now  for  a  time,  but  two  or  three  generations 
later  to  be  dreadfully  visited  on  the  heirs  of  Louis 
XIV.  —  have  been  more  truly  foreshadowed?  The 
"Telemachus:"  — 

Remember,  that  the  sovereign  who  is  most  absolute  is 
always  least  powerful;  he  seizes  upon  all,  and  his  grasp 
is  ruin.  He  is,  indeed,  the  sole  proprietor  of  whatever  his 
state  contains ;  but,  for  that  reason,  his  state  contains  noth- 
ing of  value:  the  fields  are  uncultivated,  and  almost  a  desert; 
the  towns  lose  some  of  their  few  inhabitants  every  day;  and 
trade  every  day  declines.  The  king,  who  must  cease  to  be  a 
king  when  he  ceases  to  have  subjects,  and  who  is  great  only 
m  virtue  of  his  people,  is  himself   insensibly  losing  his 


220       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

character  and  his  power,  as  the  number  of  his  people,  from 
whom  alone  both  are  derived,  insensibly  diminishes.  His 
dominions  are  at  length  exhausted  of  money  and  of  men : 
the  loss  of  men  is  the  greatest  and  the  most  irreparable  he 
can  sustain.  Absolute  power  degrades  every  subject  to  a 
slave.  The  tyrant  is  flattered,  even  to  an  appearance  of 
adoration,  and  every  one  trembles  at  the  glance  of  his  eye ; 
but,  at  the  least  revolt,  this  enormous  power  perishes  by  its 
own  excess.  It  derived  no  strength  from  the  love  of  the 
people;  it  wearied  and  provoked  all  that  it  could  reach,  and 
rendered  every  individual  of  the  state  impatient  of  its  con- 
tinuance. At  the  first  stroke  of  opposition,  the  idol  is 
overturned,  broken  to  pieces,  and  trodden  under  foot.  Con- 
tempt, hatred,  fear,  resentment,  distrust,  and  every  other 
passion  of  the  soul,  imite  against  so  hateful  a  despotism. 
The  king  who,  in  his  vain  prosperity,  found  no  man  b'ld 
enough  to  tell  him  the  truth,  in  his  adversity  finds  no  man 
kind  enough  to  excuse  his  faults,  or  to  defend  him  against 
his  enemies. 

So  much  is  perhaps  enough  to  indicate  the  politi- 
cal drift  of  the  "  Telemachus."  That  drift  is,  in- 
deed^ observable  everywhere  throughout  the  book. 

"VYe  conclude  our  exhibition  of  this  fine  classic, 
by  letting  F^nelon  appear  more  purely  now  in  his 
character  as  dreamer  and  poet.  Young  Prince  Tel- 
emachus has,  Ulysses-like,  and  iEneas-like,  his 
descent  into  Hades.  This  incident  affords  Fenelon 
opportunity  to  exercise  his  best  powers  of  awful  and 
of  lovely  imagining  and  describing.  Christian  ideas 
are,  in  this  episode  of  the  "  Telemachus,"  superin- 
duced upon  pagan,  after  a  manner  hard,  perhaps,  to 
reconcile  with  the  verisimilitude  required  by  art,  but 
at  least  productive  of  very  noble  and  very  beautiful 


F4nelon.  221 

results.  First,  one  glimpse  of  Tartarus  as  conceived 
by  Fenelon.  It  is  the  spectacle  of  kings  who  on 
earth  abused  their  power,  that  Telemachus  is  be- 
holding :  — 

Telemachus  observed  the  countenance  of  these  criminals 
to  be  pale  and  ghastly,  strongly  expressive  of  the  torment 
they  suffered  at  the  heart.  They  looked  inward  with  a  self- 
abhorrence,  now  inseparable  from  tlieir  existence.  Their 
crimes  themselves  had  become  their  punishment,  and  it 
was  not  necessary  that  greater  should  be  inflicted.  They 
haunted  them  like  hideous  spectres,  and  continually  started 
up  before  them  in  all  their  enormity.  They  wished  for  a 
second  death,  that  might  separate  them  from  these  minis- 
ters of  vengeance,  as  the  first  had  separated  their  spirits 
from  the  body,  — a  death  that  might  at  once  extinguisli  all 
consciousness  and  sensibility.  They  called  upon  the  depths 
of  hell  to  hide  them  from  the  persecuting  beams  of  truth,  in 
impenetrable  darkness  ;  but  they  are  reserved  for  the  cup  of 
vengeance,  which,  thougli  they  drink  of  it  forever,  shall  be 
ever  full.  The  truth,  from  which  they  fled,  has  overtaken 
them,  an  invincible  and  unrelenting  enemy.  The  ray  which 
once  might  have  illuminated  them,  like  the  mild  radiance 
of  the  day,  now  pierces  them  like  lightning,  —  a  fierce  and 
fatal  fire,  that,  without  injury  to  the  external  parts,  infixes 
a  burning  torment  at  the  heart.  By  truth,  now  an  avenging 
flame,  the  very  soul  is  melted  like  metal  in  a  furnace;  it 
dissolves  all,  but  destroys  nothing;  it  disunites  the  first 
elements  of  life,  yet  tlie  sufferer  can  never  die.  He  is,  as  it 
were,  divided  against  himself,  without  rest  and  without 
comfort;  animated  by  no  vital  principle,  but  the  rage  that 
kindles  at  his  own  misconduct,  and  the  dreadful  madness 
that  results  from  despair. 

If  the  "  perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets  "  that 
the  ''Telemachus"  affords,  is  felt  at  times  to  be 


222       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

almost  clo3'ing,  it  is  not,  as  our  readers  liave  now 
seen,  for  want  of  occasional  contrasts  of  a  bitter- 
ness sufflcientl}'  mordant  and  drastic.  But  tlie 
didactic  purpose  is  never  lost  sight  of  by  the  author. 
Here  is  an  aspect  of  the  P^lysium  found  b}'  Telema- 
chus.  How  could  any  thing  be  more  delectably 
conceived  and  described  ?  The  translator,  Dr. 
Hawkesworth,  is  animated  to  an  English  style  that 
befits  the  sweetness  of  his  original.  The  ' '  Telema- 
chus:"  — 

In  this  place  resided  all  the  good  kings  who  had  wisely 
governed  mankind  from  the  beginning  of  time.  They  were 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  just ;  for,  as  wicked  princes 
suffer  more  dreadful  punisliment  tlian  other  offenders  in 
Tartarus,  so  good  kings  enjoy  infinitely  greater  felicity  than 
other  lovers  of  virtue,  in  the  fields  of  Elysium. 

Telemachus  advanced  towards  these  kings,  whom  he  found 
in  groves  of  delightful  fragrance,  reclining  upon  the  downy 
turf,  where  the  flowers  and  herbage  were  perpetually  re- 
newed. A  thousand  rills  wandered  through  these  scenes  of 
delight,  and  refreshed  the  soil  with  a  gentle  and  unpolluted 
wave;  the  song  of  innumerable  birds  echoed  in  the  groves. 
Spring  strewed  the  ground  with  her  flowers,  while  at  the 
same  time  autumn  loaded  the  trees  with  her  fruit.  In  this 
place  the  burning  heat  o*'  the  dog-star  was  never  felt,  and 
the  stormy  north  was  forbidden  to  scatter  over  it  the  frosts 
of  Avinter.  Neither  War  that  thirsts  for  blood,  nor  Envy  that 
bites  with  an  envenomed  tooth,  like  the  vipers  that  are 
wreathed  around  her  arms,  and  fostered  in  her  bosom,  nor 
Jealousy,  nor  Distrust,  nor  Fears,  nor  vain  Desires,  invade 
these  sacred  domains  of  peace.  The  day  is  here  without 
end,  and  the  shades  of  night  are  unknown.  Here  the  bodies 
of  the  blessed  are  clothed  with  a  pure  and  lambent  light,  as 


FSnelon.  223 

with  a  garment.  This  light  does  not  resemble  that  vouch- 
safed to  mortals  upon  earth,  which  is  rather  darkness  visible; 
it  is  rather  a  celestial  glory  than  a  light  —  an  emanation 
that  penetrates  the  grossest  body  witli  more  subtilety  than 
the  rays  of  the  sun  penetrate  the  purest  crystal,  which  rather 
strengthens  than  dazzles  the  sight,  and  diffuses  llirough  the 
soul  a  serenity  which  no  language  can  express.  By  this 
ethereal  essence  the  blessed  are  sustained  in  everlasting  life; 
it  pervades  them;  it  is  incorporated  with  them,  as  food  with 
the  mortal  body;  they  see  it,  they  feel  it,  they  breathe  it, 
and  it  produces  in  them  an  inexhaustible  source  of  serenity 
and  joy.  It  is  a  fountain  of  delight,  in  which  they  are 
absorbed  as  fishes  are  absorbed  in  the  sea;  they  wish  for 
nothing,  and,  having  nothing,  they  possess  all  things.  This 
celestial  light  satiates  the  hunger  of  the  soul ;  every  desire 
is  precluded;  and  they  have  a  fulness  of  joy  which  sets 
them  above  all.  that  mortals  seek  with  such  restless  ardor, 
to  fill  the  vacuity  that  aches  forever  in  their  breast.  All 
the  delightful  objects  that  surround  them  are  disregarded ; 
for  their  felicity  springs  up  within,  and,  being  perfect,  can 
derive  nothing  from  without.  So  the  gods,  satiated  with 
nectar  and  ambrosia,  disdain,  as  gross  and  impure,  all  the 
dainties  of  the  most  luxurious  table  upon  earth.  From 
these  seats  of  tranquillity  all  evils  fly  far  away;  death, 
disease,  poverty,  pain,  regret,  remorse,  fear,  even  hope,  — 
which  is  sometimes  not  less  painful  than  fear  itself,  —  ani- 
mosity, disgust,  and  resentment  can  never  enter  there. 

The  leaden  good  sense  of  Louis  XIV.  pronounced 
F^nelon  the  "most  chimerical"  man  in  France. 
The  Founder  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  would  have 
been  a  dreamer,  to  this  most  worldly-minded  of 
"  Most  Christian  "  monarchs.  Bossuet,  who,  about 
to  die,  read  something  of  F^nelon's  "  Telemachus," 
b:iid  it  was  a  book    hardly  serious  enough  for  a 


224       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

clergyman  to  write.  A  more  serious  book,  whether 
its  purpose  be  regarded,  or  its  undoubted  actual 
influence  in  moulding  the  character  of  a  prospective 
ruler  of  France,  was  not  written  by  any  clergyman 
of  F^nelon's  or  Bossuet's  time. 

F^nelon  was  an  eloquent  preacher  as  well  as  an 
elegant  writer.  His  influence  exerted  in  both  the 
two  functions,  that  of  the  writer  and  that  of  the 
preacher,  was  powerfully  felt  in  favor  of  the  free- 
dom of  nature  in  style  as  against  the  conventionalitj- 
of  culture  and  art.  He  insensibly  helped  on  that 
reform  from  a  too  rigid  classicism  which  in  our  day 
we  have  seen  pushed  to  its  extreme  in  the  exaggera- 
tions of  romanticism.  Few  wiser  words  have  ever 
been  spoken  on  the  subject  of  oratory,  than  are  to 
be  found  in  his  "  Dialogues  on  Eloquence." 

French  literature,  unfortunateh',  is  on  the  whole 
such  in  character  as  to  need  all  that  it  can  show,  to 
be  cast  into  the  scale  of  moral  elevation  and  purit}'. 
F^nelon  alone  is,  in  quantity  as  in  quality,  enough, 
not  indeed  to  overcome,  but  to  go  far  toward  over- 
coming, the  perverse  inclination  of  the  balance. 


Montesquieu.  225 

XIV. 

MONTESQUIEU. 
1689-1755. 

To  Montesquieu  belongs  the  glory  of  being  the 
founder,  or  inventor,  of  the  philosophy  of  history. 
Bossuet  might  dispute  this  palm  with  him  ;  but  Bos- 
suet,  in  his  "  Discourse  on  Universal  History,"  only 
exemplified  the  principle  which  it  was  left  to  Mon- 
tesquieu afterward  more  consciously  to  develop. 

Three  books,  still  living,  are  associated  with  the 
name  of  Montesquieu,  —  "The  Persian  Letters," 
"  The  Greatness  and  the  Decline  of  the  Romans," 
and  "The  Spirit  of  Laws."  "The  Persian  Let- 
ters "  are  a  series  of  epistles  purporting  to  be  written 
by  a  Persian  sojourning  in  Paris  and  observing  the 
manners  and  morals  of  the  people  around  him.  The 
idea  is  ingenious  ;  though  the  ingenuity',  we  suppose, 
was  not  original  with  Montesquieu.  Such  letters 
afford  the  writer  of  them  an  admirable  advantage 
for  telling  satire  on  contemporary  follies.  This 
production  of  Montesquieu  became  the  suggestive 
example  to  Goldsmith  for  his  "Citizen  of  the 
World  ;  or,  Letters  of  a  Chinese  Philosopher."  We 
shall  have  here  no  room  for  illustrative  citations 
from  Montesquieu's  "Persian  Letters." 


226       Classic  French,  Course  in  English. 

The  second  work,  that  on  the  "Greatness  and 
the  Decline  of  the  Romans,"  is  less  a  history  than 
a  series  of  essays  on  the  history  of  Rome.  It  is 
brilliant,  striking,  suggestive.  It  aims  to  be  philo- 
sophical rather  than  historical.  It  deals  in  bold 
generalizations.  The  spirit  of  it  is,  perhaps,  too 
constantly  and  too  profoiindlj'^  hostile  to  the  Ro- 
mans. Something  of  the  ancient  Gallic  enmity  — • 
as  if  a  derivation  from  that  last  and  noblest  of  the 
Gauls,  Vercingetorix  —  seems  to  animate  the  French- 
man in  discussing  the  character  and  the  career  of 
the  great  conquering  nation  of  autiquit}'.  The  crit- 
ical element  is  the  clement  chiefly  wanting  to  make 
Montesquieu's  work  equal  to  the  demands  of  mod- 
ern historical  scholarship.  Montesquieu  was,  how- 
ever, a  full  worth}'  forerunner  of  the  philosophical 
historians  of  to-da}".  "We  give  a  single  extract  in 
illustration, — an  extract  condensed  from  the  chap- 
ter in  which  the  author  analyzes  and  expounds  the 
foreign  policy  of  the  Romans.  The  generalizations 
are  bold  and  brilliant,  — too  bold,  probably,  for  strict 
critical  truth.  (We  use,  for  our  extract,  the  recent 
iranslation  by  Mr.  Jehu  Baker,  who  enriches  his 
/olume  with  original  notes  of  no  little  interest  and 
value.)     Montesquieu :  — 

This  body  [the  Eoman  Senate]  erected  itself  into  a  tri- 
bunal for  the  judgment  of  all  jjeoples,  and  at  the  end~  of 
every  war  it  decided  upon  the  punishments  and  the  recom- 
penses which  it  conceived  each  to  be  entitled  to.  It  took 
away  parts  of  the  lands  of  the  conquered  states,  in  order  to 


Montesquieu.  227 

bestow  them  upon  the  allies  of  Rome,  thus  accomplishing 
two  objects  at  once,  —  attaching  to  Rome  those  kings  of 
whom  she  had  little  to  fear  and  much  to  hope,  and  weaken- 
ing those  of  whom  she  had  little  to  hope  and  all  to  feai*. 

Allies  were  employed  to  make  war  upon  an  enemy,  but 
the  destroyers  were  at^nce  destroyed  in  their  turn.  Philip 
was  beaten  with  the  half  of  the  ^tolians,  who  were  im- 
mediately afterwards  annihilated  for  having  joined  them- 
selves to  Antiochus.  Antiochiis  was  beaten  with  the  help 
of  the  Rhodians,  who,  after  having  received  signal  rewards, 
were  humiliated  forever,  under  the  pretext  that  they  had 
requested  that  peace  might  be  made  with  Perseus. 

When  they  had  many  enemies  on  hand  at  the  same  time, 
they  accorded  a  truce  to  the  weakest,  which  considered  itself 
happy  in  obtaining  such  a  respite,  counting  it  for  much  to 
be  able  to  secure  a  postponement  of  its  ruin. 

When  they  were  engaged  in  a  great  war,  the  senate  af- 
fected to  ignore  all  sorts  of  injuries,  and  silently  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  proper  time  for.  punishment ;  when,  if  it 
s.iw  that  only  some  individuals  were  culpable,  it  refused  to 
punish  them,  choosing  rather  to  hold  the  entire  nation  as 
criminal,  and  thus  reserve  to  itself  a  useful  vengeance. 

As  they  inflicted  inconceivable  evils  upon  their  enemies, 
there  were  not  many  leagues  formed  against  them ;  for  those 
who  were  most  distant  from  danger  were  not  willing  to  draw 
nearer  to  it.  The  consequence  of  this  Avas,  that  they  were 
rarely  attacked;  whilst,  on  the  other  hand,  they  constantly 
made  war  at  such  time,  in  such  manner,  and  against  such 
peoples  'IS  suited  their  convenience;  and,  among  the  many 
nations  which  tiuy  assailed,  there  were  very  few  that  would 
not  have  submitted  to  every  species  of  injury  at  their  hands 
if  Ihey  liad  b^'ou  willing  to  leave  them  in  peace. 

It  being  their  custom  to  speak  always  as  masters,  the  am- 
bassadors whom  tliey  sent  to  nations  which  had  not  yet  felt 
their  power  were  certain  to  be  insulted;  and  this  was  an 
infallible  pretext  for  a  new  war. 


228       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

As  they  never  made  peace  in  good  faith,  and  as,  with  the 
design  of  universal  conquest,  their  treaties  were,  properly, 
speaking,  only  suspensions  of  war,  they  always  put  condi- 
tions in  them  which  began  the  ruin  of  the  states  which 
accepted  them.  They  either  provided  that  the  garrisons  of 
strong  places  should  be  withdrawn,  (#  that  the  number  of 
troops  should  be  limited,  or  that  the  horses  or  the  elephants 
of  the  vanquished  party  should  be  delivered  over  to  them- 
selves ;  and  if  the  defeated  people  was  powerful  on  sea,  they 
compelled  it  to  burn  its  vessels,  and  sometimes  to  remove, 
and  occupy  a  place  of  habitation  farther  inland. 

After  having,  destroyed  the  armies  of  a  prince,  they  ruined 
his  finances  by  excessive  taxes,  or  by  the  imposition  of  a 
tribute  under  pretext  of  requiring  him  to  pay  the  expenses 
of  the  war,  — a  new  species  of  tyranny,  which  forced  the  van- 
quished sovereign  to  oppress  his  own  subjects,  and  thus  to 
alienate  their  affection. 

When  they  granted  peace  to  a  king,  they  took  some  of  his 
brothers  or  children  as  hostages.  This  gave  them  the  means 
of  troubling  his  kingdom  at  their  pleasure.  If  they  held  the 
nearest  heir,  they  intimidated  the  possessor;  if  only  a  prince 
of  a  remote  degree,  they  used  him  to  stir  up  revolts  against 
the  legitimate  ruler. 

Whenever  any  people  or  prince  withdrew  their  obedience 
from  their  sovereign,  they  immediately  accorded  to  them  the 
title  of  allies  of  the  Roman  people,  and  thus  rendered  them 
sacred  and  inviolable;  so  that  there  was  no  king,  however 
great  he  might  be,  who  could  for  a  moment  be  sure  of  his 
subjects,  or  even  of  his  family. 

Although  the  title  of  Roman  ally  was  a  species  of  servi- 
tude, it  was,  nevertheless,  very  much  sought  after;  for  the 
possession  of  this  title  made  it  certain  that  the  recipients  of 
it  would  receive  injuries  from  the  Romans  only,  and  there 
was  ground  for  the  hope  that  this  class  of  injuries  would  be 
rendered  less  grievous  than  they  would  otherwise  be. 

Thus,  there  was  no  service  which  nations  and  kings  were 


Montesquieu.  229 

not  ready  to  perfonn,  nor  any  humiliation  which  they  did 
not  submit  to,  in  order  to  obtain  this  distinction.  .  .  . 

Tliese  customs  were  not  merely  some  particular  facts 
which  happened  at  hazard.  They  were  permanently  estab- 
lished principles,  as  may  be  readily  seen;  for  the  maxims 
which  the  Romans  acted  upon  against  the  greatest  powers 
were  precisely  those  which  they  had  employed  in  the  begin- 
ning of  their  career  against  the  small  cities  which  sur- 
rounded them.  .  .  . 

But  nothing  served  Rome  more  effectually  than  the  re- 
spect which  she  inspired  among  all  nations.  She  immedi- 
ately reduced  kings  to  silence,  and  rendered  them  as  dumb. 
With  the  latter,  it  was  not  a  mere  question  of  the  degree  of 
their  power:  their  very  persons  were  attacked.  To  risk  a 
war  with  Rome  was  to  expose  themselves  to  captivity,  to 
death,  and  to  the  infamy  of  a  triumph.  Thus  it  was  that 
kings,  who  lived  in  pomp  and  luxury,  did  not  dare  to  look 
with  steady  eyes  upon  the  Roman  people,  and,  losing  cour- 
age, they  hoped,  by  their  patience  and  their  obsequiousness, 
to  obtain  some  postponement  of  the  calamities  with  which 
they  were  menaced. 

The  "  Spirit  of  Laws  "  is  probably  to  be  consid- 
ered the  masterpiece  of  Montesquieu.  It  is  our 
duty,  however,  to  saj^,  that  this  work  is  quite  differ- 
ently estimated  by  different  authorities.  By  some, 
it  is  praised  in  terms  of  the  highest  admiration,  as  a 
great  achievement  in  wide  and  wise  political  or  ju- 
ridical philosophy.  By  others,  it  is  dismissed  very 
lightl}',  as  the  ambitious,  or,  rather,  pretentious, 
effort  of  a  superficial  man,  a  showy  mere  sciolist. 
It  acquired  great  contemporary  fame,  both  at  home 
and  abroad.  It  was  promptly  translated  into 
English,  the  translator  earning  the  merited  compli- 


230        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

ment  of  the  author's  own  hearty  approval  of  his 
work.  Horace  Walpole,  who  was  something  of  a 
Gallomaniac,  makes  repeated  allusion  to  Montes- 
quieu's "Spirit  of  Laws,"  in  letters  of  his  written 
at  about  the  time  of  the  appearance  of  the  book. 
But  AValpole's  admiring  allusions  themselves  contain 
evidence  that  admiration  ecjual  to  his  own  of  the 
work  that  he  praised,  was  by  no  means  univei'sal  in 
England. 

The  general  aspect  of  the  book  is  that  of  a  com- 
position meant  to  be  luminously  analjzed  and  ar- 
ranged. Divisions  and  titles  abound.  There  are 
thirty-one  "books"  ;  and  each  book  contains,  on  the 
average,  perhaps  about  the  same  number  of  chapters. 
The  library  edition,  in  English,  consists  of  two  vol- 
umes, comprising  together  some  eight  hundred  open 
pages,  in  good-sized  type.  The  books  and  chapters 
are  therefore  not  formidably  long.  The  look  of  the 
work  is  as  if  it  were  readable  ;  and  its  character,  on 
the  whole,  corresponds.  It  would  hardly  be  French, 
if  such  were  not  the  case.  Except  that  Montes- 
quieu's "  Spirit  of  Laws  "  is,  as  we  have  indicated, 
a  highly  organized,  even  an  over-organized,  book, 
which,  by  emphasis,  Montaigne's  "  Essays  "  is  not, 
these  two  works  may  be  said,  in  their  contents, 
somewhat  to  resemble  each  other.  Montesquieu  is 
nearly  as  discursive  as  Montaigne.  He  wishes  to 
be  philosophical,  but  he  is  not  above  supplying  his 
reader  with  interesting  historical  instances. 

We  shall  not  do  better,  in  giving  our  readers  a 


Monteaquieu.  231 

comprehensive  idea  of  Montesquieu's  "  Spirit  of 
Laws,"  than  to  begin  by  showing  them  the  titles 
of  a  number  of  the  books  :  — 

Book  I.  Of  Laws  in  General.  Book  II.  Of  Laws  Directly 
Derivetl  from  the  Nature  of  Government.  Book  III.  Of  the 
Principles  of  the  Three  Kinds  of  Government.  Book  IV. 
That  the  Laws  of  Education  ought  to  be  Relative  to  the 
Principles  of  Government.  Book  V.  That  the  Laws  given 
by  the  Legislator  ought  to  be  Relative  to  the  Principle  of 
Government.  Book  VI.  Consequences  of  the  Principles 
of  Different  Governments  with  Respect  to  the  Simplicity  of 
Civil  and  Criminal  Laws,  the  Form  of  Judgments,  and  the 
Inflicting  of  Punishments.  Book  VII.  Consequences  of  the 
Different  Principles  of  the  Three  Governments  with  Respect 
to  Sumptuary  Laws,  Luxury,  and  the  Condition  of  Women. 
Book  VIII.  Of  the  Corruption  of  the  Principles  of  the  Three 
Governments.  Book  XIV.  Of  Laws  as  Relative  to  the 
Nature  of  the  Climate. 

The  philosophical  aim  and  ambition  of  the  author 
at  once  appear  in  the  inquiry  which  he  institutes  for 
the  three  several  animating  principles  of  the  three 
several  forms  of  government  respectively  distin- 
guished by  him  ;  namely,  democracy  (or  republican- 
ism), monarchy,  and  despotism.  What  these  three 
principles  are,  will  be  seen  from  the  following  state- 
ment:  "As  virtue  is  necessary  in  a  republic,  and 
in  monarchy,  honor,  so  fear  is  necessary  in  a  despotic 
government."  The  meaning  is,  that  in  republics, 
vii'tue  possessed  by  the  citizens  is  the  spring  of 
national  prosperity ;  that  under  a  monarch}',  the 
desire  of  preferment  at  the  hands  of  the  sovereign 


232       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

is  what  quickens  men  to  perform  services  to  the 
state ;  that  despotism  thrives  by  fear  inspired  in 
the  breasts  of  those  subject  to  its  swa}'. 

To  illustrate  the  freely  discursive  character  of  the 
work,  we  give  the  whole  of  chapter  sixteen  —  there 
are  chapters  still  shorter  —  in  Book  VII. :  — 

AN  EXCELLENT   CUSTOM  OF  THE   SAMNITES. 

The  Samnites  had  a  custom  which  in  so  small  a  republic, 
and  especially  in  their  situation,  must  have  been  productive 
of  admirable  effects.  The  young  people  were  all  convened 
in  one  place,  and  their  conduct  was  examined.  He  that 
was  declared  the  best  of  the  whole  assembly,  had  leave  given 
him  to  take  which  girl  he  pleased  for  his  wife;  the  second 
best  chose  after  him,  and  so  on.  Admirable  institution! 
The  only  recommendation  that  young  men  could  have  on 
this  occasion,  was  their  virtue,  and  the  service  done  their 
country.  He  who  had  the  greatest  share  of  these  endow- 
ments, chose  which  girl  he  liked  out  of  the  whole  nation. 
Love,  beauty,  chastity,  virtue,  birth,  and  even  wealtli  itself, 
were  all,  in  some  measure,  the  dowry  of  virtue.  A  nobler 
and  grander  recompense,  less  chargeable  to  a  petty  state, 
and  more  capable  of  influencing  both  sexes,  could  scarce  be 
imagined. 

The  Samnites  were  descended  from  the  Lacedsemonians; 
and  Plato,  whose  institutes  are  only  an  improvement  of 
those  of  Lycurgus,  enacted  nearly  the  same  law. 

The  relation  of  the  foregoing  chapter  to  the  sub- 
ject indicated  in  the  title  of  the  book,  is  sufficiently 
obscure  and  remote,  for  a  work  like  this  purporting 
to  be  philosophical.  What  relation  exists,  seems  to 
be   found   in    the   fact   that   the    Samnite    custom 


Montesquieu.  233 

described  tends  to  produce  that  popular  virtue  by 
which  republics  flourish.  But  the  information,  at 
all  events,  is  curious  and  interesting. 

The  following  paragraphs,  taken  from  the  second 
chapter  of  Book  XIV. ,  contain  in  germ  nearly  the 
whole  of  the  philosophy  underlying  M.  Taine's 
essays  on  the  history  of  literature  :  — 

OF   THE   DIFFERENCK   OF    MEN    IN    DIFFERENT    CLIMATES. 

A  cold  air  constringes  the  extremities  of  the  external 
fibres  of  the  body;  this  increases  their  elasticity,  and  favors 
the  return  of  the  blood  from  the  extreme  parts  to  the  heart. 
It  contracts  those  very  fibres;  consequently  it  increases  also 
their  force.  On  the  contrary,  a  warm  air  relaxes  and 
lengthens  the  extremes  of  the  fibres;  of  course  it  diminishes 
their  force  and  elasticity. 

People  are  therefore  more  vigorous  in  cold  climates.  Here 
the  action  of  the  heart  and  the  reaction  of  the  extremities 
of  the  fibres  are  better  performed,  the  temperature  of  the 
humors  is  greater,  the  blood  moves  freer  towards  the  heart, 
and  reciprocally  the  heart  has  more  power.  This  superiority 
of  strength  must  produce  various  effects;  for  instance,  a 
greater  boldness,  —  that  is,  more  courage ;  a  greater  sense  of 
superiority,  —  that  is,  less  desire  of  revenge ;  a  greater  opinion 
of  security,  —  that  is,  more  frankness,  less  suspicion,  policy 
and  cunning.  In  short,  this  must  be  productive  of  very 
different  teinpers.  Put  a  man  into  a  close,  warm  place,  and, 
for  the  reasons  above  given,  he  will  feel  a  great  faintness. 
If  under  this  circumstance  you  propose  a  bold  enteqirlse  to 
him,  I  believe  you  will  find  him  very  little  disposed  towards 
it;  his  present  weakness  will  throw  him  into  a  despondency; 
he  will  be  afraid  of  every  thing,  being  in  a  state  of  total  in- 
capacity. The  inhabitants  of  warm  countries  are,  like  old 
men,  timorous;  the  people  in  cold  countries  are,  like  young 
men,  brave. 
16 


234       Classic  French  Course  in  English . 

In  the  following  extract,  from  chapter  five,  Book 
XXIV.,  the  climatic  theory  is  again  applied,  this 
time  to  the  matter  of  religion,  in  a  style  that  makes 
one  think  of  Buckle's  "  History  of  Civilization  :  " — 

When  the  Christian  religion,  two  centuries  ago,  became 
unhappily  divided  into  Catholic  and  Protestant,  the  people 
of  the  north  embraced  the  Protestant,  and  those  south  ad- 
hered still  to  tlie  Catholic. 

The  reason  is  plain :  the  people  of  the  north  have,  and 
will  forever  have,  a  spirit  of  liberty  and  independence,  which 
the  people  of  the  south  have  not;  and  therefore,  a  religion 
which  has  no  visible  head,  is  more  agreeable  to  the  inde- 
pendency of  the  climate,  than  that  which  has  one. 

Climate  is  a  "great  matter"  with  Montesquieu. 
In  treating  of  the  subject  of  a  state  changing  its 
religion,  he  says  :  — 

Tiie  ancient  religion  is  connected  with  the  constitution  of 
the  kingdom,  and  the  new  one  is  not;  the  former  ayrees 
with  the  climate,  and  very  often  the  new  one  is  opposite 
to  it. 

For  the  Christian  religion,  Montesquieu  professes 
profound  respect,  —  rather  as  a  pagan  political  phi- 
losopher might  do,  than  as  one  intimately  acquainted 
with  it  by  a  personal  experience  of  his  own.  His 
spirit,  however,  is  humane  and  liberal.  It  is  the 
spirit  of  Montaigne,  it  is  the  spirit  of  Voltaire, 
speaking  in  the  idiom  of  this  different  man,  and  of 
this  different  man  as  influenced  by  his  different  cir- 
cumstances.    Montesquieu  had  had  practical  proof 


Montesquieu.  235 

of  the  importance  to  himself  of  not  offending  the 
dominant  hierarchy. 

The  latter  part  of  "The  Spirit  of  Laws  "  contains 
discussions  exhibiting  no  little  research  on  the  part 
of  the  author.  There  is,  for  one  example,  a  discus- 
sion of  the  course  of  commerce  in  different  ages  of 
the  world,  and  of  the  influences  that  have  wrought 
from  time  to  time  to  bring  about  the  changes  occur- 
ring. For  another  example,  there  is  a  discussion 
of  the  feudal  system. 

Montesquieu  was  an  admirer  of  the  English  con- 
stitution. His  work,  perhaps,  contains  no  extended 
chapters  more  likely  to  instruct  the  general  reader 
and  to  furnish  a  good  idea  of  the  writer's  genius  and 
method,  than  the  two  chapters  —  chapter  six,  Book 
XL,  and  chapter  twenty-seven.  Book  XIX. — in 
which  the  English  nation  and  the  English  form  of 
government  are  sympathetically  described.  We  sim- 
ply indicate,  for  we  have  no  room  to  exhibit,  these 
chapters.  Voltaire,  too,  expressed  Montesquieu's 
admiration  of  English  liberty  and  English  law. 

On  the  whole,  concerning  Montesquieu  it  may 
justlv  be  said,  that  of  all  political  philosophers,  he, 
if  not  the  profoundest,  is  at  least  one  of  the  most 
interesting ;  if  not  the  most  accurate  and  critical,  at 
least  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  suggestive. 

As  to  Montesquieu  the  man,  it  is  perhaps  suffi- 
cient to  say  that  he  seems  to  have  been  a  very  good 
type  of  the  French  gentleman  of  quality.  An  in- 
teresting storj'  told  by  Sainte-Beuve  reveals,  if  true, 


236       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

a  side  at  once  attractive  and  repellent  of  his  per- 
sonal character.  Montesquieu  at  Marseilles  em- 
ployed a  young  boatman,  whose  manner  and  speech 
indicated  more  cultivation  than  was  to  have  been 
looked  for  in  one  plying  his  vocation.  The  phi- 
losopher learned  his  history.  The  youth's  father 
was  at  the  time  a  captive  in  one  of  the  Barbary 
States,  and  this  son  of  his  was  now  working  to  earn 
money  for  his  ransom.  The  stranger  listened  ap- 
pai'ently  unmoved,  and  went  his  wa}'.  Some  months 
later,  home  came  the  father,  released  he  knew  not 
how,  to  his  surprised  and  overjoyed  family.  The 
son  guessed  the  secret,  and,  meeting  Montesquieu 
a  year  or  so  after  in  Marseilles,  threw  himself  in 
grateful  tears  at  his  feet,  begged  the  generous  bene- 
factor to  reveal  his  name  and  to  come  and  see  the 
family  he  had  blessed.  Montesquieu,  calmly  ex- 
pressing himself  ignorant  of  the  whole  business, 
actually  shook  the  young  fellow  off,  and  turned 
awa}'  without  betraying  the  least  emotion.  It  was 
not  till  after  the  cold-blooded  philanthropist's  death 
that  the  fact  came  out. 

A  tranquil,  happy  temperament  was  Montes- 
quieu's. He  would  seem  to  have  come  as  near  as 
any  one  ever  did  to  being  the  natural  master  of  his 
part  in  life.  But  the  world  was  too  much  for  him, 
as  it  is  for  all  —  at  last.  AVitness  the  contrast  of 
these  two  different  sets  of  expressions  from  his  pen. 
In  earlier  manhood  he  says  :  — 


Montesquieu.  237 

Study  has  been  for  me  the  sovereign  remedy  for  all  the 
dissatisfactions  of  life,  having  never  haJ  a  sense  of  chagrin 
that  an  hour's  reading  would  not  dissipate.  I  wake  in  the 
morning  with  a  secret  joy  to  behold  the  light.  I  behold 
the  light  with  a  kind  of  ravishment,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
day  I  am  happy. 

Within  a  few  years  of  his  death,  the  brave,  cheer- 
ful tone  had  declined  to  this  :  — 

I  am  broken  down  with  fatigue;  I  must  repose  for  the 
rest  of  my  life. 

Then  further  to  this :  — 

I  have  expected  to  kill  myself  for  the  last  three  months, 
finishing  an  addition  to  my  work  on  the  origin  and  changes 
of  the  French  civil  law.  It  will  take  only  three  hours  to 
read  it;  but,  I  assure  you,  it  has  been  such  a  labor  to  me, 
that  my  hair  has  turned  white  under  it  all. 

Finally  it  touches  nadir  :  — 

It  [his  work]  has  almost  cost  me  my  life ;  I  must  rest ;  I 
can  work  no  more. 

My  candles  are  all  burned  out ;  I  have  set  oflE  all  my  car- 
tridges. 

When  Montesquieu  died,  only  Diderot,  among 
Parisian  men  of  letters,  followed  him  to  his  tomb. 


238        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 


XV. 

VOLTAIRE.  . 

1694-1778. 

By  the  volume  and  the  variety,  joined  to  the  un- 
failing brilliancy,  of  his  production  ;  by  his  prodigious 
effectiveness  ;  and  b}'  his  universal  fame,  —  Voltaire 
is  undoubtedly  entitled  to  rank  first,  with  no  fellow, 
among  the  eighteenth-century  literary  men,  not 
merely  of  France,  but  of  the  world.  He  was  not  a 
great  man,  — he  produced  no  single  great  work, — 
but  he  must  nevertheless  be  pronounced  a  great 
writer.  There  is  hardly  any  species  of  composition 
to  which,  in  the  long  course  of  his  activity,  he  did 
not  turn  his  talent.  It  cannot  be  said  that  he  suc- 
ceeded splendidly  in  all ;  but  in  some  he  succeeded 
splendidly,  and  he  failed  abjectly  in  none.  There 
is  not  a  great  thought,  and  there  is  not  a  flat  expres- 
sion, in  the  whole  bulk  of  his  multitudinous  and 
multifarious  works.  Read  him  wherever  you  will, 
in  the  ninety-seven  volumes  (equivalent,  probably, 
in  the  aggregate,  to  three  hundred  volumes  like  the 
present)  which,  in  one  leading  edition,  collect  his  pro- 
ductions, —  you  may  often  find  him  superficial,  you' 
may  often  find  him  untrustworthy,  you  will  certainly 
often  find  him  flippant,  but  not  less  certainly  you- 


Voltaire.  239 

V  (*1  never  find  him  obscure,  and  you  will  never  find 
him  dull.  The  clearness,  the  vivacity,  of  this  man's 
mind  were  something  almost  preternatural.  80,  too, 
were  his  readiness,  his  versatility,  his  audacity.  He 
had  no  distrust  of  himself,  no  awe  of  his  fellow- 
men,  no  reverence  for  God,  to  deter  him  from  any 
attempt  with  his  pen,  however  presuming.  If  a 
state  ode  were  required,  it  should  be  ready  to  order 
at  twelve  to-morrow  ;  if  an  epic"poem  —  to  be  classed 
with  the  "Iliad"  and  the  "^neid  "  —  the  "Henri- 
ade  "  was  promptly  forthcoming,  to  answer  the  de- 
mand. He  did  not  shrink  from  flouting  a  national 
idol,  b^  freely  finding  fault  with  Corneille ;  and  he 
lightly  undertook  to  extinguish  a  venerable  form  of 
Christianity,  simply  with  pricks,  innumerably  re- 
peated, of  his  tormenting  pen. 

A  very  large  part  of  the  volume  of  Voltaire's 
production  consists  of  letters,  written  by  him  to  cor- 
respondents perhaps  more  numerous,  and  more  vari- 
ous in  rank,  from  kings  on  the  throne  down  to 
scribblers  in  the  garret,  than  ever,  in  any  other  case, 
exchanged  such  communications  with  a  literary  man. 
Another  considerable  proportion  of  his  work  in  lit- 
erature took  the  form  of  pamphlets,  either  anony- 
mously or  pseudonymously  published,  in  which  this 
master-spirit  of  intellectual  disturbance  and  ferment 
found  it  convenient,  or  advantageous,  or  safe,  to 
promulge  and  propagate  his  ideas.  A  shower  of 
such  publications  was  incessantly  escaping  from  Vol- 
taire's pen.     More  formal  and  legular,  more  con- 


240        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

fessedl}'  ambitious,  literary  essays  of  his,  were  poems 
in  every  kiud,  —  heroic,  moclc-heroie,  lyric,  elegiac, 
comic,  tragic,  satiric,  —  historical  and  biographical 
monographs,  and  tales  or  novels  of  a  peculiar  class. 
Voltaire's  poetry  does  not  count  for  very  much 
now.  Still,  its  first  success  was  so  great  that  it  will 
always  remain  an  important  topic  in  literary  history. 
Besides  this,  it  really  is,  in  some  of  its  kinds, 
remarkable  work.  Voltaire's  epic  verse  is  almost 
an  exception,  needful  to  be  made,  from  our  assertion 
that  this  author  is  nowhere  dull.  '"The  llenriade" 
comes  dangerously  near  that  mark.  It  is  a  tasteless 
reproduction  of  Lucan's  faults,  with  little  repro- 
duction of  Lucan's  virtues.  Voltaire's  comedies 
are  bright  and  witty,  but  they  are  not  laughter-pro- 
voking ;  and  they  do  not  possess  the  elemental  and 
creative  character  of  Shakspeare's  or  Molidre's 
work.  His  tragedies  are  better ;  but  they  do  not 
avoid  that  cast  of  mechanical  which  seems  neces- 
sarily to  belong  to  poetry  produced  by  talent, 
however  consummate,  unaccompanied  with  genius. 
Voltaire's  histories  are  luminous  and  readable  nar- 
ratives, but  they  cannot  claim  either  the  merit  of 
critical  accuracy  or  of  philosophic  breadth  and 
insight.  His  letters  would  have  to  be  read  in  con- 
siderable volume  in  order  to  furnish  a  full  satis- 
factory idea  of  the  author.  His  tales,  finally,  afford 
the  most  available,  and,  on  the  whole,  likewise,  the 
best,  means  of  coming  shortly  and  easily  at  a  knowl- 
edge of  \'oltaire. 


■t'^ 


Voltaire.  241 

Among  Voltaire's  tales,  douhtless  the  one  most 
eligible  for  use,  to  serve  our  present  purpose,  is  his 
'•  Candide."  This  is  a  nondescript  piece  of  fiction, 
the  design  of  which  is,  by  means  of  a  narrative  of 
travel  and  adventure,  constructed  without  much  ^^\ 
regard  to  the  probability  of  particular  incidents,  to' 
set  forth,  in  the  characteristic  mocking  vein  of  Vol- 
taire, the  vanity  and  misery  of  mankind.  The 
author's  invention  is  often  whimsical  enough  ;  but  it 
is  constantly  so  read}-,  so  reckless,  and  so  abundant, 
that  the  reader  never  tires,  as  he  is  hurried  ceaselessly 
forward  from  change  to  change  of  scene  and  cir- 
cumstance.  The  play  of  wit  is  incessant.  The 
style  is  limpidity  itself.  Your  sympathies  are  never 
painfully  engaged,  even  in  recitals  of  experience 
that  ought  to  be  the  most  heart-rending.  There  is 
never  a  touch  of  noble  moral  sentiment,  to  relieve 
the  monotonj'  of  mockery  that  lightly  laughs  at  j'ou, 
and  tantalizes  you,  page  after  page,  flora  the  begin- 
ning to  the  end  of  tlie  book.  The  banter  is  not 
good-natured  ;  though,  on  the  other  hand,  it  cannot 
justly  be  pronounced  ill-natured  ;  and  it  is.  in  final 
effect  upon  the  reader's  mind,  bewildering  and  de- 
pressing in  the  extreme.  Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is 
vanity,  —  such  is  the  comfortless  doctrine  of  the 
book.  The  apples  are  the  apples  of  Sodom,  every- 
where in  the  world.  There  is  no  virtue  anywhere, 
no  good,  no  happiness.  Life  is  a  cheat,  the  love  of 
life  is  a  cruelty,  and  beyond  life  there  is  nothing. 
At  least,  there  is  no  glimpse  given  of  any  compen- 


242      Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

pating  future  reserved  for  men,  a  future  to  redress 
the  balance  of  good  and  ill  experienced  here  and 
now.  Faith  and  hope,  those  two  eyes  of  the  soul, 
are  smilingly  quenched  in  their  sockets  ;  and  you 
are  left  blind,  in  a  whirling  world  of  darkness,  with 
a  whirling  world  of  darkness  before  you. 

Such  is  "  Candide."  We  select  a  single  passage 
for  specimen.  The  passage  we  select  is  more  nearly 
free  than  almost  any  other  passage  as  long,  in  this 
extraordinary  romance,  would  probably  be  found, 
from  impure  implications.  It  is,  besides,  more 
nearly  serious  in  apparent  motive,  than  is  the  gen- 
eral tenor  of  the  production.  Here,  however,  as 
elsewhere,  the  writer  keeps  carefully  down  his 
mocking-mask.  At  least,  you  are  left  tantalizingly 
uncertain  all  the  time  how  much  the  grin  you  face 
is  the  grin  of  the  man,  and  how  much  the  grin  of  a 
visor  that  he  wears. 

Candide,  the  hero,  is  a  j'^oung  fellow  of  ingenuous 
character,  brought  successively  under  the  lead  of 
several  different  persons  wise  in  the  ways  of  the 
world,  who  act  toward  him,  each  in  his  turn,  the 
part  of  "guide,  philosopher,  and  friend."  Can- 
dide, with  such  a  mentor  bearing  the  name  Martin, 
has  now  arrived  at  Venice.     Candide  speaks  :  — 

"  I  have  heard  great  talk  of  the  Senator  Pococurante,  who 
lives  in  that  fine  house  at  the  Brenta,  where  they  say  he 
entertains  foreigners  in  tlie  most  polite  manner.  They  pre- 
tend this  man  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  uneasiness."  —  "I 
should  be  glad  to  see  so  extraordinary  a  being,"  said  Martin. 


Voltaire.  243 

Candide  thereupon  sent  a  messenger  to  Signer  Pococurante, 
desiring  permission  to  wait  on  liira  the  next  day. 

Candide  and  his  friend  Martin  went  into  a  gondola  on  the 
Brenta,  and  arrived  at  the  palace  of  the  noble  Pococurante : 
the  gardens  were  laid  out  in  ek^gant  taste,  and  adorned  with 
line  marble  statues;  his  palace  was  built  after  the  most 
approved  rules  of  architecture.  The  master  of  the  house, 
who  was  a  man  of  sixty,  and  very  rich,  received  our  two 
travellers  with  great  politeness,  but  without  nmch  ceremony, 
which  somewhat  disconcerted  Candide,  but  was  not  at  all 
displeasing  to  Martin. 

As  soon  as  they  were  seated,  two  very  pretty  girls,  neatly 
dressed,  brought  in  chocolate,  which  was  extremely  well 
frothed.  Candide  could  not  help  making  encomiums  upon 
their  beauty  and  graceful  carriage.  ''  The  creatures  are 
well  enough,"  said  the  senator.  "  I  make  them  my  com- 
panions, for  I  am  heartily  tired  of  the  ladies  of  the  town, 
their  coquetry,  their  jealousy,  their  quarrels,  their  humors, 
their  meannesses,  their  pride,  and  their  folly.  I  am  weary 
of  making  sonnets,  or  of  paying  for  sonnets  to  be  made,  on 
them;  but,  after  all,  these  two  girls  begin  to  grow  very 
indifferent  to  me." 

After  having  refreshed  himself,  Candide  walked  into  a 
large  gallery,  where  he  was  struck  with  the  sight  of  a  fine 
collection  of  paintings.  "Pray,"  said  Candide,  "by  what 
master  are  the  two  first  of  these  ?  "  —  "  They  are  Raphael's," 
answered  the  senator.  "I  gave  a  great  deal  of  money  for 
them  seven  years  ago,  purely  out  of  curiosity,  as  they  were 
said  to  be  the  finest  pieces  in  Italy :  but  I  cannot  say  they 
please  me ;  the  coloring  is  dark  and  heai'y ;  the  figures  do  not 
swell  nor  come  out  enough;  and  the  drapery  is  very  bad. 
In  short,  notwithstanding  the  encomiums  lavished  upon 
them,  they  are  not,  in  my  opinion,  a  true  representation  of 
natiu"e.  I  approve  of  no  paintings  but  where  I  think  I  be- 
hold Nature  herself ;  and  there  are  very  few,  if  any,  of  that 
kind  to  be  met  with.  I  have  what  is  called  a  fine  collection, 
but  I  take  no  manner  of  delight  in  them." 


244       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

While  dinner  was  getting  ready,  Pococurante  ordered  a 
concert.  Candide  praised  the  music  to  tliQ  skies.  "This 
noise,"  said  tlie  noble  Venetian,  "may  amuse  one  for  a 
little  time;  but  if  it  was  to  last  above  half  an  hour,  it  would 
grow  tiresome  to  everybotly,  though  perhaps  no  one  would 
care  to  own  it.  Music  is  become  the  art  of  executing  what 
is  difficult;  now,  wliatever  is  difficult  cannot  be  long 
pleasing. 

"I  believe  I  raftght  take  more  pleasure  in  an  opera,  if 
they  had  not  made  such  a  monster  of  that  species  of  dra- 
matic entertainment  as  perfectly  shocks  me;  and  I  am 
amazed  how  people  can  bear  to  see  wretched  tragedies  set 
to  music,  where  the  scenes  are  contrived  for  no  other  pur- 
pose than  to  lug  in,  as  it  were  by  the  ears,  three  or  four 
ridiculous  songs,  to  give  a  favorite  actress  an  opportunity  of 
exhibiting  her  pipe.  Let  who  will  or  can  die  away  in  rap- 
tures at  the  trills  of  a  eunuch  quavering  the  majestic  part 
of  Caesar  or  Cato,  and  strutting  in  a  foolish  manner  upon 
the  stage.  For  my  part,  I  have  long  ago  renounced  these 
paltry  entertainments,  which  constitute  the  glory  of  modern 
Italy,  and  are  so  dearly  purchased  by  crowned  heads." 
Candide  opposed  these  sentiments,  but  he  did  it  in  a  dis- 
creet manner.  As  for  Martin,  he  was  entirely  of  the  old 
senator's  opinion. 

Dinner  being  served  up,  they  sat  down  to  table,  and  after  a 
very  hearty  repast,  returned  to  the  library.  Candide,  observ- 
ing Homer  richly  bound,  commended  the  noble  Venetian's 
taste.  "  This,"  said  he,"  is  a  book  that  was  once  the  delight 
of  the  great  Pangloss,  the  best  philosopher  in  Germany." 
—  "Homer  is  no  favorite  of  mine,"  answered  Pococurante 
very  coolly.  "I  was  made  to  believe  once  that  I  took  a 
pleasure  in  reading  him;  but  his  continual  repetitions  of 
battles  must  have  all  such  a  resemblance  with  each  other; 
his  gods  that  are  forever  in  a  hurry  and  bustle,  without  ever 
doing  any  thing;  his  Helen,  that  is  the  cause  of  the  war, 
and  yet  hardly  acts  in  the  whole  performance;  his  Troy, 


Voltaire.  245 

that  holds  out  so  long  without  being  taken;  in  short,  all 
these  things  together  make  the  poem  very  insipid  to  me.  I 
liave  asked  some  learned  men  whether  they  are  not  in  reality 
as  much  tired  as  myself  with  reading  this  poet.  Those  who 
spoke  ingenuously  assured  me  that  he  had  made  them  fall 
asleep,  and  yet  that  they  could  not  well  avoid  giving  him  a 
place  in  their  libraries;  but  that  it  was  merely  as  they  would 
do  an  antique,  or  those  rusty  medals  which  are  kept  only 
for  curiosity,  and  are  of  no  manner  of  use  in  commerce." 

"  But  your  excellency  does  not  surely  form  the  same 
opinion  of  Virgil?"  said  Candide.  "Why,  I  grant,"  re- 
plied Pococurante,  "  that  the  second,  third,  fourth,  and  sixth 
books  of  his  '^neid'  are  excellent;  but  as  for  his  pious 
jEneas,  his  strong  Cloanthus,  his  friendly  Acliates,  his  boy 
Ascanius,  his  silly  King  Latinus,  his  ill-bred  Araata,  his 
insipid  Lavinia,  and  some  other  characters  much  in  the 
same  strain,  I  think  there  cannot  in  nature  be  any  thing 
more  flat  and  disagreeable.  I  must  confess  I  prefer  Tasso 
far  beyond  him;  nay,  even  that  sleepy  tale-teller  Ariosto." 

"  May  I  take  the  liberty  to  ask  if  you  do  not  receive  great 
pleasure  from  reading  Horace?"  said  Candide.  "Tliere 
are  maxims  in  this  writer,"  replied  Pococurante,  "  from 
whence  a  man  of  the  world  may  reap  some  benefit ;  and  the 
short  measure  of  the  verse  makes  them  more  easily  to  be 
retained  in  the  memory.  But  I  see  nothing  extraordinary 
in  his  journey  to  Brundusium,  and  his  account  of  his  bad 
dinner;  nor  in  his  dirty,  low  quarrel  between  one  Rupilius, 
whose  words,  as  he  expresses  it,  were  full  of  poisonous  filth ; 
and  another,  whose  language  was  dipped  in  vinegar.  His 
in;lelicate  verses  against  old  women  and  witches  have  fre- 
quently given  me  great  offence;  nor  can  I  discover  the  great 
merit  of  his  telling  his  friend  Mascenas,  that,  if  he  will  but 
rank  him  in  the  class  of  lyric  poets,  his  lofty  head  shall 
touch  the  stars.  Ignorant  readers  are  apt  to  advance  every 
thing  by  the  lump  in  a  writer  of  reputation.  For  my  part, 
I  read  only  to  please  myself.    I  like  nothing  but  what  makes 


246       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

for  ray  purpose."  Candide,  who  had  been  brought  up  with 
a  notion  of  never  making  use  of  his  own  judgment,  was 
astonished  at  what  he  lieard ;  but  Martin  found  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  reason  in  tlie  senator's  remarks. 

"  Oil,  here  is  a  Tully  I"  said  Candide;  "  this  great  man,  I 
fancy,  you  are  never  tired  of  reading."  —  "Indeed,  I  never 
read  him  at  all,"  replied  Pococurante.  "What  a  deuce  is 
it  to  me  whether  he  pleads  for  Rabirius  or  Cluentius  ?  I  try 
causes  enough  myself.  1  had  once  some  liking  to  his  philo- 
sophical works;  but  when  I  found  he  doubted  of  every 
thing,  I  thought  I  knew  as' much  as  himself,  and  had  no 
need  of  a  guide  to  learn  ignorance." 

"  Ha! "  cried  Martin,  "  here  are  fourscore  volumes  of  the 
'Memoirs  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences;'  perhaps  there  may 
be  something  curious  and  valuable  in  this  collection."  — 
"  Yes,"  answered  Pococurante;  "  so  there  might,  if  any  one 
of  these  compilers  of  this  rubbish  had  only  invented  the  art 
of  pin-making.  But  all  these  volumes  are  filled  with  mere 
chimerical  systems,  without  one  single  article  conducive  to 
real  utility." 

"  I  see  a  prodigious  number  of  plays,"  said  Candide,  "in 
Italian,  Spanish,  and  French."  —  "Yes,"  replied  the  Vene- 
tian; "there  are,  I  think,  three  thousand,  and  not  three 
dozen  of  them  good  for  any  thing.  As  to  those  huge  vol- 
umes of  divinity,  and  those  enormous  collections  of  sermons, 
they  are  not  all  together  worth  one  single  page  of  Seneca; 
and  I  fancy  you  will  readily  believe  that  neither  myself  nor 
any  one  else  ever  looks  into  them." 

Martin,  perceiving  some  shelves  filled  with  English  books, 
said  to  the  senator,  "  I  fancy  that  a  republican  must  be 
highly  delighted  with  those  books,  which  are  most  of  them 
written  with  a  noble  spirit  of  freedom."  —  "It  is  noble  to 
write  as  we  think,"  said  Pococurante ;  "it  is  the  privilege 
of  humanity.  Throughout  Italy  we  write  only  what  we  do 
not  think;  and  the  present  inhabitants  of  the  countiy  of 
the  Caesars  and  Antoninuses  dare  not  acquire  a  single  idea 


Voltaire.  247 

without  the  permission  of  a  father  Dominican.  I  should 
be  enamoured  of  the  spirit  of  the  English  nation  did  it  not 
utterly  frustrate  the  good  effects  it  would  produce  hy  pas- 
sion and  the  spirit  of  party." 

Candide,  seeing  a  Milton,  asked  the  senator  if  he  did  not 
think  that  author  a  great  man.  "  Who  ! "  said  Pococurante 
shaqjly.  "That  barbarian,  who  writes  a  tedious  commen- 
tary, in  ten  books  of  rambling  verse,  on  the  first  chapter  of 
Genesis!  That  slovenly  imitator  of  the  Greeks,  who  dis- 
figures the  creation  by  making  the  Messiah  take  a  pair  of 
compasses  from  heaven's  armory  to  plan  the  world;  whereas 
Moses  represented  the  Deity  as  producing  the  whole  uni- 
verse by  his  fiat!  Can  I  think  you  have  any  esteem  for  a 
writer  who  has  spoiled  Tasso's  hell  and  the  devil;  who 
transforms  Lucifer,  sometimes  into  a  toaJ,  and  at  others 
into  a  pygmy;  who  makes  him  say  the  same  thing  over  again 
a  hundred  times;  who  metamorphoses  him  into  a  school- 
divine;  and  who,  by  an  absurdly  serious  imitation  of 
Ariosto's  comic  invention  of  fire-arms,  represents  the  devils 
and  angels  cannonading  each  other  in  heaven !  Neither  I, 
nor  any  other  Italian,  can  possibly  take  pleasure  in  such 
meFancholy  reveries.  But  the  marriage  of  Sin  and  Death, 
and  snakes  issuing  from  the  womb  of  the  former,  are  enough 
to  make  any  person  sick  that  is  not  lost  to  all  sense  of  deli- 
cacy. This  obscene,  whimsical,  and  disagreeable  poem  met 
with  the  neglect  that  it  deserved  at  its  first  publication;  and 
I  only  treat  the  author  now  as  he  was  treated  in  his  own 
country  by  his  contemporaries." 

Candide  was  sensibly  grieved  at  this  speech,  as  he  had  a 
great  respect  for  Homer,  and  was  very  fond  of  Milton. 
"Alas!"  said  he  softly  to  Martin,  "I  am  afraid  this  man 
holds  our  German  poets  in  great  contempt."  —  "There 
would  be  no  such  great  harm  in  that,"  said  Martin.  —  "  Oh, 
what  a  surprising  man! "  said  Candide  to  himself.  "  What 
a  prodigious  genius  is  this  Pococurante !  Nothing  can  please 
him." 


248       Classic  French  Course  in,  English. 

After  finishing  their  survey  of  tlie  library  they  went  down 
into  tlie  garden,  wlien  Caudidc  commended  tlie  several  beau- 
ties that  offered  themselves  to  his  view.  "I  know  nothing 
upon  earth  laid  out  in  such  bad  taste,"  said  Pococurante; 
"  every  thing  about  it  is  childish  and  triiling;  but  I  shall 
have  another  laid  out  to-morrow  upon  a  nobler  plan." 

As  soon  as  our  two  travellers  had  taken  leave  of  his  excel- 
lency, "Well,"  said  Candide  to  Martin,  "I  hope  you  will 
own  that  this  man  is  the  happiest  of  all  mortals,  for  he  is 
above  everything  he  possesses."  —  "  But  do  you  not  see," 
answered  Martin,  "  that  he  likewise  dislikes  every  thing  he 
possesses  ?  It  was  an  observation  of  Plato  long  since,  that 
those  are  not  the  best  stomachs  that  reject,  without  distinc- 
tion, all  sorts  of  aliments."  —  "  True,"  said  Candide;  "  but 
still,  there  must  certainly  be  a  pleasure  in  criticising  every 
thing,  and  in  perceiving  faults  where  others  think  they  see 
beauties."  —  "  That  is,"  replied  Martin,  "  there  is  a  pleasure 
in  having  no  pleasure." — "Well,  well,"  said  Candide,  "I 
find  that  I  shall  be  the  only  happy  man  at  last,  when  I  am 
blessed  with  the  sight  of  my  dear  Cunegund."  —  "  It  is  good 
to  hope,"  said  Martin. 

The  single  citation  preceding  sufficiently  exempli- 
fies, at  their  best,  though  at  their  worst,  not,  the  style 
and  the  spirit  of  Voltaire's  "Candide;"  as  his 
"Candide"  sufficiently  exemplifies  the  style  and 
the  spirit  of  the  most  characteristic  of  Voltaire's 
writings  in  general.  "  Pococurantism  "  is  a  word, 
now  not  uncommon  in  English,  contributed  by  Vol- 
taire to  the  vocabulary  of  literature.  To  readers  of 
the  foregoing  extract,  the  sense  of  the  term  will  not 
need  to  be  explained.  We  respectfully  suggest  to 
our  dictionary-makers,  that  the  fact  stated  of  its 
origin  in  the  "  Candide  "  of  Voltaire  would  be  in- 


Voltaire.  249 

teresting  and  instnictive  to  man}'.  Voltaire  coined 
the  name,  to  suit  the  character  of  his  Venetian  gen- 
tleman, from  two  Italian  words  which  mean  together 
"  little-caring."  Signor  Pococurante  is  the  immor- 
tal type  of  men  that  have  worn  out  their  capacity 
of  fresh  sensation  and  enjoyment. 

It  was  a  happy  editorial  thought  of  Mr.  Henry 
Morlcy,  in  his  cheap  library,  now  issuing,  of  standard 
books  for  the  people,  to  bind  up  Johnson's  "  Ras- 
selas  "  in  one  volume  with  Voltaire's  "Caudide," 
The  two  stories,  nearly  contemporaneous  in  their 
production,  ofifer  a  stimulating  contrast  in  treatment, 
at  the  hands  of  two  sharply  contrasted  writers,  of 
much  the  same  subject,  —  the  unsatisfactoriness  of 
the  world. 

Mr.  John  Morley,  a  very  different  writer  and  a 
very  different  man  from  his  namesake  just  men- 
tioned, has  an  elaborate  monograph  on  Voltaire  in 
a  volume  perhaps  twice  as  large  as  the  present. 
This  work  claims  the  attention  of  all  students 
desirous  of  exhaustive  acquaintance  with  its  sub- 
ject. Mr.  John  Morley  writes  in  sympathy  with 
Voltaire,  so  far  as  Voltaire  was  an  enemy  of  the 
Christian  religion  ;  but  in  antipathy  to  him,  so  far 
as  Voltaire  fell  shoil  of  being  an  atheist.  A  simi- 
lar sj'mpathy,  limited  by  a  similar  antipathy,  is 
observable  in  the  same  author's  still  more  extended 
monograph  on  Rousseau.  It  is  only  in  his  two 
volumes  on  "  Diderot  and  the  Encj'clopaedists,"  that 
Mr.  Morley  finds  himself  able  to  write  without 
17 


250       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

reserve  in  full  moral  accord  with  the  men  whom  he 
describes.  Of  course,  in  all  these  books  the  biog- 
rapher and  critic  feels,  as  Englishman,  obliged  to 
concede  much  to  his  English  audience,  in  the  way 
of  condemning  impurities  in  his  authors.  The  con- 
cession thus  made  is  made  with  great  adroitness  of 
manner,  the  writer's  aim  evidently  being  to  imply 
that  his  infidels  and  atheists,  if  they  are  somewhat 
vicious  in  taste,  had  the  countenance  of  good  Chris- 
tian example  or  parallel  for  all  the  lapses  they  show. 
Mr.  Morley  wishes  to  be  fair,  but  his  atheist  zeal 
overcomes  him.  This  is  especially  evident  in  his 
work  on  "  Diderot  and  the  Encyclopaedists,"  where 
his  propagandist  desire  to  clear  the  character  of  his 
hero  bribes  him  once  and  again  to  unconscious  false 
dealing.  In  his  "Voltaire,"  and  in  his  "Rous- 
seau," Mr.  Morley  is  so  lofty  in  tone,  expressing 
himself  against  the  moral  obliquities  of  the  men 
with  whom  he  is  dealing,  that  often  you  feel  the 
ethic  atmosphere  of  the  books  to  be  pure  and  bracing, 
almost  beyond  the  standard  of  biblical  and  Chris- 
tian. But  in  his  "  Diderot  and  the  Encyclopaedists," 
such  fine  seveiity  is  conspicuously  absent.  Mr. 
Morley  is  so  deeply  convinced  that  atheism  is  what 
we  all  most  need  just  now,  that  when  he  has  —  not 
halting  mere  infidels,  like  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  — 
but  good  thorough-going  atheists,  like  Diderot  and 
his  fellows,  to  exhibit,  he  can  hardly  bring  himself 
to  injure  their  exemplary  influence  with  his  readers, 
by  allowing  to  exist  any  damaging  flaws  in  their 
character. 


Voltaire,  251 

Even  in  Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  but  particularly 
in  Voltaire,  Mr.  Morle\',  though  his  sympathy  with 
these  writers  is,  as  we  have  said,  not  complete,  finds 
far  more  to  praise  than  to  blame.  To  this  eager 
apostle  of  atheism,  Voltaire  was  at  least  on  the  right 
road,  although  he  did,  unfortunately,  stop  short  of 
the  goal.  His  ilitlueuce  was  potent  against  Chris- 
tianity, and  potent  it  certainly  was  not  against 
atheism.  Voltaire  might  freely  be  lauded  as  on 
the  whole  a  mighty  and  a  beneficent  libei'alizer  of 
thought. 

And  we,  we  who  are  neither  atheists  nor  deists  — 
let  us  not  deny  to  Voltaire  his  just  meed  of  praise. 
There  were  streaks  of  gold  in  the  base  alloy  of  that 
character  of  his.  He  burned  with  magnanimous 
heat  against  the  hideous  doctrine  and  practice  of 
ecclesiastical  persecution.  Carlyle  says  of  Voltaire, 
that  he  "spent  his  best  efforts,  and  as  many  still 
think,  successfully,  in  assaulting  the  Christian  re- 
ligion." This,  true  though  it  be,  is  liable  to  be 
falsely  understood.  It  was  not  against  the  Chris- 
tian religion,  as  the  Christian  religion  really  is,  but 
rather  against  the  Christian  religion  as  the  Koman 
hierarchy  misrepresented  it,  that  Voltaire  ostensi- 
bly directed  his  efforts.  "  You  are  right,"  wrote 
he  to  his  henchman  D'Alembert,  in  1762,  "  in  assum- 
ing that  I  speak  of  superstition  only  ;  for  as  to  the 
Christian  religion,  I  respect  it  and  love  it,  as  you 
do."  This  distinction  of  Voltaii-e's,  with  whatever 
degree  of  simple  sincerity  on  bis  part  made,  ought 


252       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

to  be  remembered  in  his  favor,  when  his  memorable 
motto,  "•  Ecrasez  r Infdme^''  is  interpreted  and  ap- 
plied. He  did  not  mean  Jesus  Christ  by  V Infdme ; 
be  did  not  mean  the  Christian  religion  by  it ;  he  did 
not  even  mean  the  Chiistian  Church  by  it ;  he  meant 
the  oppressive  despotism  and  the  crass  obscurantism 
of  the  Komau-Catholic  hierarchy.  At  least,  this  is 
what  he  would  have  said  that  he  meant,  what  in 
fact  he  substantial! N'  did  say  that  he  meant,  when  in- 
cessantly reiterating,  in  its  various  forms,  his  watch- 
word, ""Ecrasez  rinfi'inie^"  "-Ecrasons  V Infdme," — 
"Crush  the  wretch  !  "  " Let  us  crush  the  wretch  !  " 
His  blows  were  aimed,  perhaps,  at  "  superstition  ;  " 
but  they  really  fell,  in  the  full  half  of  their  effect, 
on  Christianity  itself.  Whether  Voltaire  regretted 
this,  whether  he  would  in  his  heart  have  had.  it 
otherwise,  may  well,  in  spite  of  any  protestation 
from  him  of  love  for  Christianity,  be  doubted.  Still, 
it  is  never,  in  judgment  of  Voltaire,  to  be  forgotten 
that  the  organized  Christianity  which  he  confronted, 
was  in  large  part  a  sj'stem  justly  hateful  to  the  true 
and  wise  lover  whether  of  God  or  of  man.  That 
sj'stem  he  did  well  in  fighting.  Carnal  indeed  were 
the  weapons  with  which  he  fought  it ;  and  his  victory 
over  it  was  a  carnal  victory,  bringing,  on  the  whole, 
but  slender  net  advantage,  if  any  such  advaetage 
at  all.,  to  the  cause  of  final  truth  and  light.  The 
French  Revolution,  with  its  excesses  and  its  hor- 
rors, was  perhaps  the  proper,  the  legitimate,  the 
necessary,  fruit  of  resistance  such  as  was  Voltaire's^ 


Voltaire.  253 

in  fundamental  spirit,  to  the  evils  in  churcli  and  in 
state  against  which  he  conducted  so  gallantly  his 
life-long  campaign. 

But  though  we  thus  bring  in  doubt  the  work  of 
Voltaire,  both  as  to  the  purit}'  of  its  motive,  and  as 
to  the  value  of  its  fruit,  we  should  wrong  our  sense 
of  justice  to  ourselves  if  we  permitted  our  readers 
to  suppose  us  blind  to  the  generous  things  that  this 
arch-infidel  did  on  behalf  of  the  suffering  and  the 
oppressed.  Voltaire  more  than  once  wielded  that 
pen  of  his,  the  most  dreaded  weapon  in  Europe,  like 
a  knight  sworn  to  take  on  himself  the  championship 
of  the  forlorn  est  of  causes.  There  is  the  historic 
ease  of  Jean  Calas  at  Toulouse,  Protestant,  an  old 
man  of  near  seventy,  broken  on  the  wheel,  as  sus- 
pected, without  evidence,  and  against  accumulated 
impossibilities,  of  murdering  his  own  son,  a  young 
man  of  about  thirt}-,  by  hanging  him.  Voltaire 
took  up  the  case,  and  pleaded  it  to  the  common 
sense,  and  to  the  human  feeling,  of  France,  with 
immense  effectiveness.  It  is,  in  truth,  Voltaire's 
advocacy  of  righteousness,  in  this  instance  of  in- 
credible wrong,  that  has  made  the  instance  itself 
immortal.  His  part  in  the  case  of  Calas,  though 
the  most  signal,  is  not  the  only,  example  of  Vol- 
taire's literaiT  knighthood.  He  hated  oppression, 
and  he  loved  liberty,  for  himself  and  for  all  men, 
with  a  passion  as  deep  and  as  constant  as  any  pas- 
sion of  which  nature  had  made  Voltaire  capable.  If 
the  liberty  that  he  loved  was  fundamentally  liberty 


254       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

as  against  God  no  less  than  as  against  men,  and  if 
the  oppression  that  he  hated  was  fundamentally  the 
oppression  of  being  put  under  obligation  to  obey 
Christ  as  lord  of  life  and  of  thought,  this  was  some- 
tltiiig  of  which,  probabl}',  Voltaire  never  had  a 
clear    consciousness. 

We  have  now  indicated  what  was  most  admirable 
in  Voltaire's  personal  character.  On  the  whole,  he 
was  far  from  being  an  admirable  man.  He  was 
vain,  he  was  shallow,  he  was  frivolous,  he  was  de- 
ceitful, he  was  voluptuous,  he  fawned  on  the  great, 
he  abased  himself  before  tliem,  he  licked  the  dust 
on  which  they  stood.  "  Trajan^  est-il  content  f" 
("  Is  Trajan  satisfied?  ")  — this,  asked,  in  nauseous 
adulation,  and  nauseous  self-abasement,  by  Vol- 
taire of  Louis  XV.,  so  little  like  Trajan  in  charac- 
ter —  is  monumental.  The  occasion  was  the  produc- 
tion of  a  piece  of  Voltaire's  written  at  the  instance 
of  Louis  XV. 's  mistress,  the  infamous  Madame  de 
Pompadour.  The  king,  for  answer,  simply  gorgon- 
ized  the  poet  with  a  stony  Bourbon  stare. 

But,  taken  altogether,  Voltaire's  life  was  a  great 
success.  He  got  on  in  the  world,  was  rich,  was 
fortunate,  was  famous,  was  gay,  if  he  was  not 
happy.  He  had  his  friendship  with  the  great 
Frederick  of  Prussia,  who  filled  for  his  false  French 
flatterer  a  return  cup  of  sweetness,  cunningly  mixed 
with  exceeding  bitterness.  His  death  was  an  appro- 
priate conp  de  th^dtre,  a  felicity  of  finish  to  such  a 
life,  quite  beyond  the  reach  of  art.     He  came  back 


Rousseau.  255 

to  Paris,  whence  he  had  been  an  exile,  welcomed 
with  a  triumph  transcending  the  triumph  of  a  con- 
queror. They  made  a  great  feast  for  him,  a  feast 
of  flattery,  in  the  theatre.  The  old  man  was  di-unk 
with  delight.  The  deliglit  was  too  much  for  him. 
It  literally  killed  him.  It  was  as  if  a  favorite 
actress  should  be  quite  smothered  to  death  on  the 
stage,  under  flowers  thrown  in  excessive  profusion 
at  her  feet. 

Let  Carl3le's  sentence  be  our  epigraph  on  Vol- 
taire :  — 

"  No  great  Man.  .  .  .  Found  alwa3S  at  the  top, 
less  by  power  in  swimming  than  by  lightness  in 
floating." 


XVI. 

ROUSSEAU. 
1712-1778. 


There  are  two  Rousseaus  in  French  literature. 
At  least,  there  was  a  first,  until  the  second  effaced 
him,  and  became  the  only. 

We  speak,  of  course,  in  comparison,  and  hyper- 
bolically.  J.  B.  Rousseau  is  still  named  as  a  lyric 
poet  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  But  when  Rous- 
seau, without  initials,  is  spoken  of,  it  is  always 
Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  that  is  meant. 


256       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

Joan  Jacques  IJousseau  is  perhaps  the  most 
squalid,  as  it  certainly  is  oue  of  the  most  splendid, 
among  French  literary  names.  The  squalor  belongs 
chiefly  to  the  man,  but  the  splendor  is  wholly  the 
writer's.  There  is  hardly*  another  example  in  the 
Avorld's  literature  of  a  union  so  striking  of  these 
opposites. 

Rousseau's  life  he  has  himself  told,  in  the  best, 
the  worst,  and  the  most  imperishable,  of  his  books, 
the  "  Confessions."  This  book  is  one  to  which  the 
adjective  charming  attaches,  in  a  peculiarly  literal 
sense  of  the  word.  The  spell,  however,  is  repellent 
as  well  as  attractive.  But  the  atti'action  of  the  style 
asserts  and  pronounces  itself  only  the  more,  in 
triumph  over  the  much  there  is  in  the  matter  to  dis- 
gust and  revolt.  It  is  quite  the  most  offensive,  and 
it  is  well-nigh  the  most  fascinating,  book  that  we 
know. 

The  "  Confessions  "  begin  as  follows  :  — 

I  purpose  an  imdertaking  that  never  had  an  example, 
and  whose  execution  never  will  have  an  imitator.  I  would 
exhibit  to  my  fellows  a  man  in  all  the  truth  of  nature,  and 
that  man  —  myself. 

Myself  alone.  I  know  my  own  heart,  and  I  am  ac- 
quainted with  men.  I  am  made  unlike  any  one  I  have  ever 
seen,  —  I  dare  believe  unlike  any  living  being.  If  no  better 
than,  I  am  at  least  different  from,  others.  Wliether  nature 
did  well  or  ill  in  breaking  the  mould  wherein  I  was  cast,  can 
be  cietermined  only  after  having  read  me. 

Let  the  last  trumpet  sound  when  it  will,  I  will  come,  with 
this  book  in  my  hand,  and  present  myself  before  the  Sever- 


Rousseau.  257 

eign  .Tudgs.  I  will  boldly  proclaim:  Thus  liave  I  acted, 
thus  have  I  thought,  such  was  I.  With  equal  frankness 
liave  I  disclosed  tlie  goo.l  and  the  evil.  I  have  omitted 
nothing  bad,  added  nothing  good;  and  if  I  have  happened 
to  make  use  of  some  unimportant  ornament,  it  has,  in  every 
ease,  been  simply  for  the  purpose  of  filling  up  a  void  oc- 
casioned by  my  lack  of  memory.  I  may  have  taken  for 
granted  as  true  what  I  knew  to  be  possible,  never  wliat  I 
knew  to  be  false.  Such  as  I  was,  I  have  exhibited  myself,  — 
despicable  and  vile,  when  so;  virtuous,  generous,  sublime, 
when  so.  I  have  unveiled  my  interior  being,  such  as  Thou, 
Eternal  Existence,  liast  beheld  it.  Assemble  around  me  the 
numberless  throng  of  my  fellow-mortals ;  let  them  listen  to 
my  confessions,  let  them  blush  at  my  depravities,  let  them 
^rink  appalled  at  my  miseries.  Let  each  of  them,  in  his 
turn,  with  equal  sincerity,  lay  bare  his  heart  at  the  foot  of 
thy  throne,  and  then  let  a  single  one  tell  thee,  if  he  dare, 
I  was  better  than  that  man. 

Notwithstanding  our  autobiographer's  disavowal 
of  debt  to  example  for  the  idea  of  his  "Confes- 
sions," it  seems  clear  that  Montaigne  here  was  at 
least  inspiration,  if  not  pattern,  to  Rousseau.  But 
Rousseau  resolved  to  do  what  Montaigne  had  done, 
more  ingenuously  and  more  courageously  than  Mon- 
taigne had  done  it.  This  writer  will  make  himself 
his  subject,  and  then  treat  his  subject  with  greater 
frankness  than  any  man  before  him  ever  used  about 
himself,  or  than  any  man  after  him  would  ever  use. 
lie  undoubtedly  succeeded  in  his  attempt.  His 
frankness,  in  fact,  is  so  forward  and  eager,  that  it  is 
probably  even  inventive  of  things  disgraceful  to  him- 
self.   Montaigne  makes  great  pretence  of  telling  his 


258       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

own  faults,  but  j^ou  observe  that  he  generally  chooses 
rather  amiable  faults  of  his  own  to  tell.  Rousseau's 
morbid  vulgarity  leads  him  to  disclose  traits  in 
himself,  of  character  or  of  behavior,  that,  despite 
whatever  contrary  wishes  on  your  part,  compel  your 
contempt  of  the  man.  And  it  is  for  the  man  who 
confesses,  almost  more  than  for  the  man  who  is 
guilty,  that  j'ou  feel  the  contempt. 
The  "  Confessions  "  proceed  :  — 

I  was  born  at  Geneva,  in  1712,  of  Isaac  Rousseau  and 
Susannah  Bernard,  citizens.  ...  I  came  into  tlie  world 
weak  and  sickly.  I  cost  my  mother  her  life,  and  my  birth 
was  the  first  of  my  misfortunes. 

I  never  learned  how  my  fatlier  supported  his  loss,  but  I 
know  that  he  remained  ever  after  inconsolable.  .  .  .  When 
he  used  to  say  to  me,  "  Jean  Jacques,  let  us  speak  of  your 
mother,"  my  usual  reply  was,  "  Well,  father,  we'll  cry, 
then,"  a  reply  which  would  instantly  bring  the  tears  to  liis 
eyes.  "All!"  he  would  exclaim  with  agitation,  "give  me 
her  back,  console  me  for  lier  loss,  fill  up  the  void  slic  lias  left 
in  my  soul.  Could  I  love  thee  thus  wert  thou  but  my  son?  " 
Forty  years  after  liaving  lost  her  he  expired  in  tlie  ai-ms  of 
a  second  wife,  but  with  the  name  of  the  first  on  liis  lips, 
and  her  image  engraven  on  his  heart. 

Sucli  were  tlie  authors  of  my  being.  Of  all  the  gifts 
Heaven  had  allotted  them,  a  feeling  heart  was  the  only  one 
I  had  inherited.  While,  however,  this  had  been  the  source 
of  their  happiness,  it  became  the  spring  of  all  my  misfor- 
tunes. 

"  A  feeling  heart  !"  That  expression  tells  the 
literary  secret  of  Rousseau.  It  is  hardly  too  much 
to  *av  that  Rousseau  was  the  first  French  writer  to 


Rousseau.  259 

write  with  his  heart ;  but  heart's  blood  was  the  ink 
in  which  almost  every  wonl  of  Rousseau's  was  writ- 
ten. This  was  the  spring  of  his  marvellous  power. 
Rousseau :  — 

My  mother  had  left  a  number  of  romances.  These  father 
and  I  betook  us  to  reading  during  the  evenings.  At  first 
the  sole  object  was,  by  means  of  entertaining  books,  to  im- 
prove me  in  reading;  but,  ere  long,  the  charm  became  so 
potent,  that  we  read  tiu-n  about  without  intermission,  and 
passed  whole  nights  in  this  employment.  Xever  could  we 
break  up  till  the  end  of  the  volume.  At  times  my  father, 
hearing  the  swallows  of  a  morning,  would  exclaim,  quite 
ashamed  of  himself,  "Come,  let's  to  bed;  I'm  more  of  a 
child  than  you  are!  " 

The  elder  Rousseau  was  right  respecting  himself. 
Aud  such  a  father  would  almost  necessarily  have 
such  a  child.  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  is  .to  be 
judged  tenderly  for  his  faults.  What  birth  and 
what  breeding  were  his!  The  "Confessions"  go 
on  :  — 

I  soon  acquired,  by  this  dangerous  course,  not  only  an 
extreme  facility  in  reading  and  understanding,  but,  for  my 
age,  a  quite  unprecedented  acquaintance  with  the  passions. 
I  had  not  the  slightest  conception  of  things  themselves,  at 
a  time  when  the  wliole  round  of  sentiments  was  already 
perfectly  familiar  to  me.  I  had  apprehended  nothing — I 
had  felt  all. 

Some  hint  now  of  other  books  read  by  the  boy  :  — 


260        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

With  the  summer  of  1719  the  romance-reading  termi- 
nated. .  .  .  "The  History  of  tlie  Church  and  Empire"  by 
Lesueur,  Bossuet's  "  Dissertation  on  Universal  History," 
Plutarcli's  "Lives,"  Nani's  "History  of  Venice,"  Ovid's 
"Metamorphoses,"  "La  Bruyere,"  Fonteneile's  "Worlds," 
his  "  Dialogues  of  tlie  Dead,"  and  a  few  volumes  of  Moliere, 
were  transported  into  my  father's  shop;  and  I  read  them  to 
him  every  day  during  his  work.  For  this  employment  I 
acquired  a  rare,  and,  for  my  age,  perhaps  unprecedented, 
taste.  Plutarch  especially  became  my  favorite  reading.  The 
pleasure  which  I  found  in  incessantly  reperusing  him,  cured 
nie  in  some  measure  of  the  romance  madness;  and  I  soon 
came  to  prefer  Agesilaus,  Brutus,  and  Aristides,  to  Oronda- 
tes,  Artemenes,  and  Juba.  From  these  interesting  studies, 
joined  to  tlie  conversations  to  which  they  gave  rise  with  my 
father,  resulted  that  free,  republican  spirit,  that  haughty 
and  untamable  character,  fretful  of  restraint  or  subjection, 
which  has  tormented  me  my  life  long,  and  that  in  situations 
the  least  suitable  for  giving  it  play.  Incessantly  occupied 
with  Rome  and  Athens,  living,  so  to  speak,  with  their  great 
men,  born  myself  the  citizen  of  a  republic  [Geneva],  the  son 
of  a  father  with  whom  patriotism  was  the  ruling  passion,  I 
caught  the  flame  from  him  —  I  imagined  myself  a  Greek 
or  a  Roman,  and  became  the  personage  whose  life  I  was 
reading. 

On  such  food  of  reading  and  of  reverie,  young 
Rous&eau's  imagination  and  sentiment  battened, 
while  his  reason  and  liis  practical  sense  starved 
and  died  within  him.  Unconsciously  thus  in  part 
was  formed  the  dreamer  of  the  "■  £mile  "  and  of 
"The  Social  Contract."  Another  glimpse  of  the 
home-life  —  if  home-life  such  experience  can  be 
called  —  of  this  half-orphan,  homeless  Genevan 
boy :  — 


Jijusseau.  "2^1 

I  had  a  brother,  my  elJer  by  seven  years.  .  .  .  He  fell 
into  the  ways  of  debauchery,  even  before  he  was  old  enough 
to  be  really  a  libertine.  ...  I  remember  once  when  my 
father  was  chastising  him  severely  and  in  auger,  that  I  im- 
petuously threw  myself  between  them,  clasping  him  tightly. 
I  thus  covered  him  with  my  body,  receiving  the  blows  that 
were  aimed  at  him;  and  I  held  out  so  persistently  in  this 
position,  that  whether  softened  by  my  cries  and  tears,  or 
fearing  that  I  should- get  the  worst  of  it,  my  father  was 
forced  to  forgive  him.  In  the  end  my  brother  turned  out 
so  bad  that  he  ran  away  and  disappeared  altogether. 

It  is  pathetic  —  Rousseau's  attempted  contrast 
following,  between  the  paternal  neglect  of  his  older 
brother  and  the  paternal  indulgence  of  himself :  — 

If  this  poor  lad  was  carelessly  brought  up,  it  was  quite 
otherwise  with  his  brother.  .  .  .  My  desires  were  so  little 
excited,  and  so  little  crossed,  that  it  never  came  into  ray 
head  to  have  any.  I  can  solemnly  aver,  that,  till  the  time 
when  I  was  bound  to  a  master,  I  never  kn#w  what  it  was 
to  have  a  whim. 

Poor  lad !  ' '  Never  knew  what  it  was  to  have 
a  whim!"  It  well  might  be,  however  —  his  boj's 
life  all  one  whim  uncrossed,  unchecked  ;  no  con- 
trast of  saving  restraint,  to  make  him  know  that  he 
was  living  by  whim  alone!  The  "Confessions" 
trul}-  say :  — 

Thus  commenced  the  formation  or  the  manifestation  in 
ms  of  that  heart  at  once  so  haughty  and  so  tender,  of  that 
effeminate  and  yet  unconquerable  character  which,  ever 
vacillating  between  courage  and  weakness,  Between  virtue 


262       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

and  yielding  to  temptation,  has  all  along  set  me  in  contra- 
diction to  myself,  and  has  resulted  in  my  failing  both  ot 
abstinence  and  enjoyment,  both  of  prudence  and  pleasure. 

The  half-orphan  becomes  orphan  entire,  not  by 
the  death,  but  by  the  withdrawing,  of  the  father. 
That  father,  having  been  accused  of  a  misdemeanor, 
"preferred,"  Rousseau  somewhat  vaguely  says, 
"to  quit  Geneva  for  the  remainder  of  his  life, 
rather  than  give  up  a  point  wherein  honor  and  lib- 
erty appeared  to  him  compromised."  Jean  Jacques 
was  sent  to  board  with  a  parson,  who  taught  him 
Latin,  and,  along  with  Latin,  supplied,  Rousseau 
scornfully  says,  "all  the  accompanying  mass  of 
paltrj-  rubbish  styled  education."     He  adds  :  — 

The  country  was  so  entirely  new  to  me,  that  I  could  never 
grow  weary  in  my  enjoyment  of  it;  and  I  acquired  so  strong 
a  liking  for  it,  that  it  has  never  become  extinguished. 

Young  Jean  Jacques  was  at  length  apprenticed 
to  an  engraver.  He  describes  the  contrast  of  his 
new  situation  and  the  effect  of  the  contrast  upon 
his  own  character  and  career :  — 

I  learned  to  covet  in  silence,  to  dissemble,  to  dissimulate, 
to  lie,  and  at  last  to  steal, — a  propensity  for  which  I  had 
never  hitherto  had  the  slightest  inclination,  and  of  which 
I  have  never  since  been  able  quite  to  cure  myself.  .  .  . 

;\Iy  first  theft  was  the  result  of  complaisance,  but  it 
opened  the  door  to  others  which  load  not  so  laudable  a 
motive.  * 


Rou88p.au.  263 

My  mister  had  a  journeyman  named  M.  Verrat.  .  .  . 
[lie]  took  it  into  his  head  to  rob  his  mother  of  some  of  her 
early  asparagus  and  sell  it,  converting  the  proceeds  into 
some  extra  good  breakfasts.  As  he  did  not  wish  to  expose 
himself,  and  not  being  very  nimble,  he  selected  me  for  this 
expedition.  .  .  .  Long  did  I  stickle,  but  he  persisted.  I 
never  could  resist  kindness,  so  I  consented.  I  went  every 
morning  to  the  garden,  gathered  the  best  of  the  asparagus, 
and  took  it  to  "the  Molard,"  where  some  good  creature, 
perceiving  that  I  had  just  been  stealing  it,  would  insinuate 
that  little  fact,  so  as  to  get  it  the  cheaper.  In  my  terror  I 
took  whatever  she  chose  to  give  me,  and  carried  it  to  M. 
Verrat. 

This  little  domestic  arrangement  continued  for  several 
days  before  it  came  into  my  head  to  rob  the  robber,  and 
tithe  M.  Verrat  for  the  proceeds  of  the  asparagus.  ...  I 
tlius  learned  that  to  steal  was,  after  all,  not  so  very  terrible 
a  thing  as  I  had  conceived,  and  ere  long  I  turned  this  dis- 
covery to  so  good  an  account,  that  nothing  I  had  an  inclina- 
tion for  could  safely  be  teft  within  my  reach.  .  .  . 

And  now,  before  giving  myself  over  to  the  fatality  of  my 
destiny,  let  me,  for  a  moment,  contemplate  what  would 
naturally  have  been  my  lot  had  I  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a 
better  master.  Nothing  was  more  agreeable  to  my  tastes, 
nor  better  calculated  to  render  me  happy,  than  the  calm  and 
obscure  condition  of  a  good  artisan,  more  especially  in  cer- 
tain lines,  such  as  that  of  an  engraver  at  Geneva.  ...  In 
my  native  country,  in  the  bosom  of  my  religion,  of  my 
family,  and  my  friends,  I  should  have  led  a  life  gentle  and 
uncheckered  a3  became  my  character,  in  the  uniformity  of 
a  pleasing  occupation  and  among  connections  dear  to  ray 
heart.  I  should  have  been  a  good  Christian,  a  good  citizen, 
a  goo  1  father,  a  good  friend,  a  good  artisan,  and  a  good 
man  in  every  respect.  I  should  have  loved  my  station;  it 
m.iy  ho  I  should  have  been  an  honor  to  it:  and  after  having 
pas5e<I  an  obscure  and  simple,  though  even  and  happy,  life, 


264       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

I  should  peacefully  have  departed  in  the  bosom  of  my  kin- 
dred.    Soon,  it  may  be,  forgotten,  I  should  at  least  have 
been  regretted  as  long  as  the  remembrance  of  me  survived. 
Instead  of  this  .  .  .  what  a  picture  am  I  about  to  draw ! 

Thus  ends  the  first  book  of  the  "  Confessions." 
The  picture  Rousseau  is  "  about  to  draw  "  has  in 
it  a  certain  Madame  de  Warens  for  a  principal  fig- 
ure. (Apprentice  Jean  Jacques  has  left  his  master, 
and  entered  on  a  vagabond  life.)  This  ladj*  is  a 
character  very  difficult  for  us  Protestant  Americans 
in  our  contrasted  society  to  conceive  as  real  or  as 
possible.  She  kept  a  house  of,  what  shall  we  call 
it?  detention,  for  souls  doubtfully  in  the  way  of 
being  reclaimed  from  Pi'otestant  error  into  the 
bosom  of  the  Roman-Catholic  Cliurch.  She  was 
herself  a  Roman-Catholic  convert  from  Protestant- 
ism. She  had  forsaken  a  husband,  not  loved,  and 
was  living  on  a  bounty  from  King  Victor  Amadeus 
of  Sardinia.  For  Annecy,  the  home  of  Madame  de 
Warens,  our  young  Jean  Jacques,  sent  thither  by  a 
Roman-Catholic  curate,  sets  out  on  foot.  The  dis- 
tance was  but  one  day's  walk ;  which  one  day's 
walk,  however,  the  humor  of  the  wanderer  stretched 
into  a  saunter  of  three  daj's.  The  man  of  fifty- 
four,  become  the  biographer  of  his  own  youth,  finds 
no  loathness  of  self-respect  to  prevent  his  detailing 
the  absurd  adventures  with  which  he  diverted  him- 
self on  tlie  way.     For  example  :  — 

Not  a  country-seat  could  I  see,  either  to  the  right  or  left, 
without  soiu'?   after  the  adventure  which  1  was  certain 


Rousseau.  265 

awaited  me.  I  could  not  muster  courage  to  enter  the  man- 
sion, nor  even  to  knock,  for  I  was  excessively  timid;  but  I 
sang  beneath  the  most  inviting  window,  very  much  aston- 
ished to  find,  after  wasting  my  breath,  that  neither  lady 
nor  miss  made  her  appearance,  attracted  by  the  beauty  of 
my  voice,  or  the  spice  of  my  songs, — seeing  that  I  knew 
some  capital  ones  that  my  comi-ades  had  taught  me,  and 
which  I  sang  in  the  most  admirable  manner. 

Rousseau  describes  the  emotions  he  experienced 
in  his  first  meeting  with  Madame  de  Warens :  — 

I  had  pictured  to  myself  a  grim  old  devotee  —  M.  de 
Pontverre's  "worthy  lady"  could,  in  my  opinion,  be  none 
other.  But  1q,  a  countenance  beaming  with  charms,  beau- 
tiful, mild  blue  eyes,  a  complexion  of  dazzling  fairness,  the 
outline  of  an  enchanting  neck  !  Nothing  escaped  the  rapid 
glance  of  the  young  proselyte ;  for  that  instant  I  was  hers, 
sure  that  a  religion  preached  by  such  missionaries  could  not 
fail  to  lead  to  paradise  I 

This  abnormally  susceptible  youth  had  remark- 
able experiences,  all  within  his  own  soul,  during  his 
sojourn,  of  a  few  days  only,  on  the  present  occasion, 
under  Madame  de  Warens' s  hospitable  roof.  These 
experiences,  the  autobiographer,  old  enough  to  call 
himself  "  old  dotard,"  has,  nevertheless,  not  grown 
wise  enough  to  be  ashamed  to  be  very  detailed  and 
psychological  fn  recounting.  It  was  a  case  of  pre- 
cocious love  at  first  sight.  One  could  aflTord  to  laugh 
at  it  as  ridiculous,  but  that  it  had  a  sequel  full  of 
sin  and  of  sorrow.  Jean  Jacques  was  now  for- 
warded to  Turin,  to  become  inmate  of  a  sort  of 
charity  school  for  the  instruction  of  catechumens. 
The  very  day  after  be  started  on  foot,  his  father, 
18 


266        Classic  French  Course  m  Englhh. 

with  a  friend  of  his,  readied  Aunec}'  on  horseback, 
in  pursuit  of  the  truant  boy.  They  might  easily 
have  overtaken  hira,  but  they  let  him  go  his  wa}'. 
Rousseau  explains  the  case  on  behalf  of  his  father 
as  follows  :  — 

My  father  was  not  only  an  honorable  man,  but  a  person 
of  the  most  reliable  probity,  and  endowed  with  one  of  those 
powerful  minds  that  perform  deeds  of  loftiest  heroism.  I 
may  add,  he  was  a  good  father,  especially  to  me.  Tenderly 
did  he  love  me,  but  he  loved  his  pleasures  also;  and,  since 
our  living  apart,  other  ties  had,  in  a  measure,  weakened  his 
paternal  affection.  He  had  married  again,  at  Nyon;  and 
though  his  wife  was  no  longer  of  an  age  to  present  me  with 
brothers,  yet  she  had  connections;  another  family-circle  was 
thus  formed,  other  objects  engrossed  his  attention,  and  the 
new  domestic  relations  no  longer  so  frequently  brought  back 
the  remembrance  of  me.  My  father  was  growing  old,  and 
had  nothing  on  which  to  rely  for  the  support  of  his  declin- 
ing years.  My  brother  and  I  had  something  coming  to  us 
from  my  mother's  fortune;  the  interest  of  this  my  father 
was  to  receive  during  our  absence.  This  consideration  did 
not  present  itself  to  him  directly,  nor  did  it  stand  in  the  way 
of  his  doing  his  duty;  it  had,  however,  a  silent,  and  to  him- 
self imperceptible,  influence,  and  at  times  slackened  his  zeal, 
which,  unacted  upon  by  this,  would  have  been  carried  much 
farther.  This,  I  think,  was  the  reason,  that,  having  traced 
me  as  far  as  Annecy,  he  did  not  follow  me  to  Chamberi, 
where  he  was  morally  certain  of  overtaking  me.  This  will 
also  explain  why,  in  visiting  him  many  times  after  my 
flight,  I  received  from  him  on  every  occasion  a  father's  kind- 
ness, though  unaccompanied  by  any  very  pressing  efforts  to 
retain  me. 

Rousseau's  filial  regard  for  his  father  was  pecul- 
iar.    It  did  not  lead  him  to  hide,  it  only  led  him 


R'jua^e'ju.  267 

to  account  for,  his  father's  sordidness.  The  son 
generalized  and  inferred  a  moral  maxim  for  the  con- 
duct of  life  from  this  behavior  of  the  father's, — a 
maxim,  which,  as  he  thought,  had  done  him  great 
good.     He  sa^'s  :  — 

This  conduct  on  the  part  of  a  father  of  whose  affection 
and  virtue  I  have  had  so  many  proofs,  has  given  rise  within 
me  to  reflections  on  my  own  character  which  have  not  a 
little  contributed  to  maintain  my  heart  uncorrupted.  I  have 
derived  therefrom  this  great  maxim  of  morality,  perhaps 
the  only  one  of  any  use  in  practice;  namely,  to  avoid  such 
situations  as  put  our  duty  in  antagonism  with  our  interest, 
or  disclose  our  own  advantage  in  the  misfortunes  of  another, 
certain  that  in  such  circumstances,  however  sincere  the  love 
of  virtue  we  bring  with  us,  it  will  sooner  or  later,  and 
whether  we  perceive  it  or  not,  become  weakened,  and  we 
shall  come  to  be  unjust  and  culpable  in  our  acts  without 
having  ceased  to  be  upright  and  blameless  in  our  intentions. 

The  fruitful  maxim  thus  deduced  by  Rousseau, 
he  thinks  he  tried  faithfully  to  put  in  practice. 
With  apparent  perfect  assurance  concerning  him- 
self, he  saj's :  — 

I  have  sincerely  desired  to  do  what  was  right.  I  have, 
with  all  the  energy  of  my  character,  shunned  situations 
which  set  my  interest  in  opposition  to  the  interest  of  another, 
thus  inspiring  me  with  a  secret  though  involuntary  desire 
prejudicial  to  that  man. 

Jean  Jacques  at  Turin  made  speed  to  convert 
himself,  by  the  abjurations  required,  into  a  pretty 
good  Catholic.    'He  was  hereon  free   to   seek   hia 


268      Classic  French  Course  in  E7iglish. 

fortune  in  the  Sardinian  capital.  This  he  did  by 
getting  successively  various  situations  in  service. 
In  one  of  tliese  he  stole,  so  he  tells  us,  a  piece  of 
ribbon,  which  was  soon  found  in  his  possession. 
He  said  a  maid-servant,  naming  her,  gave  it  to  him. 
The  two  were  confronted  with  each  other.  In  spite 
of  the  poor  girl's  solemn  appeal,  Jean  Jacques  per- 
sisted in  his  lie  against  her.  Both  servants  were 
discharged.  The  autobiographer  protests  that  he 
has  suffered  much  remorse  for  this  lie  of  his  to  the 
harm  of  the  innocent  maid.  He  expresses  confident 
hope  that  his  suffering  sorrow,  already  experienced 
on  this  behalf,  will  stand  him  in  stead  of  punishment 
that  might  be  his  due  in  a  future  state.  Remorse 
is  a  note  in  Rousseau  that  distinguishes  him  from 
Montaigne.  Montaigne  reviews  his  own  life  to  live 
over  his  sins,  not  to  repent  of  them. 

The  end  of  several  vicissitudes  is,  that  young 
Rousseau  gets  bacli  to  Madame  de  Warens.  She 
welcomes  him  kindly.     He  says  :  — 

From  the  first  day,  the  most  affectionate  familiarity  sprang 
up  between  us,  and  that  to  the  same  degree  in  whicli  it  con- 
tinued during  all  the  rest  of  her  life.  Petit — Child  —  was 
my  name,  Maman — Mamma  —  hers;  and  Petit  and  Maman 
we  remained,  even  when  the  course  of  time  had  all  but 
effaced  the  difference  of  our  ages.  These  two  names  seem 
to  me  marvellously  well  to  express  our  tone  towards  each 
otlier,  the  simplicity  of  our  manners,  and,  more  than  all,  the 
relation  of  our  hearts.  She  was  to  me  the  tenderest  of 
mothers,  never  seeking  her  own  pleasure,  but  ever  my  wel- 
fare ;  and  if  the  senses  had  any  thing  to  do  with  my  attach- 


Mousseau.  269 

ment  for  her,  it  was  not  to  change  its  nature,  but  only  to 
render  it  more  exquisite,  and  intoxicate  me  with  the  cliarm 
of  having  a  young  and  pretty  mamma  whom  it  was  delight- 
ful forme  to  caress.  I  say  quite  literally,  to  caress;  for  it 
never  entered  into  her  head  to  deny  me  the  tenderest  mater- 
nal kisses  and  endearments,  nor  into  my  heart  to  abuse 
them.  Some  may  say  that,  in  the  end,  quite  other  relations 
subsisted  between  us.  I  grant  it;  but  have  patience,  —  I 
cannot  tell  every  thing  at  once. 

With  Madame  de  Warens,  Rousseau's  relations, 
as  is  intimated  above,  became  licentious.  This 
continued  until,  after  an  interval  of  j'ears  (nine 
years,  with  breaks) ,  in  a  fit  of  jealousy  he  forsook 
her.  Rousseau's  whole  life  was  a  series  of  self- 
indulgences,  grovelling,  sometimes,  beyond  what  is 
conceivable  to  any  one  not  learning  of  it  all  in  detail 
from  the  man's  own  pen.  The  reader  is  fain  at 
last  to  seek  the  only  relief  possible  from  the  sicken- 
ing story,  by  flying  to  the  conclusion  that  Jean 
Jacques  Rousseau,  with  all  his  genius,  was  wanting 
in  that  mental  sanity  which  is  a  condition  of  com- 
plete moral  responsibility. 

We  shall,  of  course,  not  follow  the  "Confessions " 
through  their  disgusting  recitals  of  sin  and  shame. 
We  should  do  wrong,  however,  to  the  literary,  and 
even  to  the  moral,  character  of  the  work,  were  we 
not  to  point  OTit  that  there  are  frequent  oases  of 
sweetness  and  beaut}-  set  in  the  wastes  of  incred- 
ible foulness  which  overspread  so  widely  the  pages 
of  Rousseau's  '•  Couffssions."  Here,  for  exam- 
ple, is  an  idyll  of  vagabondage  that  might  almost 


270       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

make  one  willing  to  play  tramp  one's  self,  if  one  by 
so  doing  might  have  such  an  experience  :  — 

I  remember,  particularly,  having  passed  a  delicious  night 
without  the  city  on  a  road  that  skirted  the  Rhone  or  the 
Saone,  for  I  cannot  remember  which.  On  the  other  side 
were  terraced  gardens.  It  had  been  a  very  warm  day;  the 
evening  was  charming;  the  dew  moistened  the  faded  grass; 
a  calm  night,  without  a  breeze;  the  air  was  cool  without 
being  cold ;  the  sun  in  setting  had  left  crimson  vapors  in  the 
sky,  wliicli  tinged  the  water  with  its  roseate  hue,  while  the 
trees  along  the  terrace  were  filled  with  nightingales  gushing 
out  melodious  answers  to  each  other's  song.  I  walked  along 
in  a  species  of  ecstasy,  giving  up  heart  and  senses  to  the 
enjoyment  of  the  scene,  only  slightly  sighing  with  regret  at 
enjoying  it  alone.  Absorbed  in  my  sweet  reverie,  I  pro- 
longed my  walk  far  into  the  night,  without  perceiving  that 
I  was  Avearied  out.  At  length  I  discovered  it.  I  lay  volup- 
tuously down  on  the  tablet  of  a  sort  of  niclie  or  false  door 
sunk  in  the  terrace  wall.  The  canopy  of  my  couch  was 
formed  by  the  over-arching  boughs  of  the  trees;  a  nightingale 
sat  exactly  above  me;  its  song  lulled  me  to  sleep;  my  slum- 
ber was  sweet,  and  my  awaking  still  more  so.  It  was  broad 
day;  my  eyes,  on  opening,  fell  on  the  water,  the  veraure,  and 
the  admirable  landscape  spread  out  before  me.  I  arose  and 
shook  off  dull  sleep;  and,  growing  hungry,  1  gayly  directed 
my  steps  towards  the  city,  bent  on  transforming  two  pieccn 
<le  six  blancH  that  I  had  left,  into  a  good  breakfast.  I  was 
so  cheerful  that  I  went  singing  along  the  whole  way. 

This  happy-go-lucky,  vagabond,  grown-up  child, 
this  sentimentalist  of  genius,  had  now  and  then  dif- 
ferent experiences,  —  experiences  to  which  the  re- 
flection of  tlie  man  grown  old  attributes  impo\1ant 
influence  on  the  formation  of  his  most  controlling 
b-liefs:  — 


Rousseau.  271 

One  day,  among  others,  having  purposely  turned  aside  to 
get  a  closer  view  of  a  spot  that  appeared  worthy  of  all 
admiration,  I  grew  so  delighted  with  it,  and  wandered  round 
it  so  often,  that  I  at  length  lost  myself  completely.  After 
several  hours  of  useless  walking,  weary  and  faint  with  hun- 
ger and  thirst,  I  entered  a  peasant's  hut  which  did  not  pre- 
sent a  very  promising  appearance,  but  it  was  the  only  one  I 
saw  around.  I  conceived  it  to  be  here  as  at  Geneva  and 
throughout  Switzerland,  where  all  the  inhabitants  in  easy 
circumstances  are  in  the  situation  to  exercise  hospitality.  I 
entreated  the  man  to  get  me  some  dinner,  offering  to  pay 
for  it.  He  presented  me  with  some  skinmied  milk  and 
coarse  barley  bread,  observing  that  that  was  all  he  had,  I 
drank  the  milk  with  delight,  and  ate  the  bread,  chaff  and 
all;  but  this  was  not  very  restorative  to  a  man  exhausted 
with  fatigue.  The  peasant,  who  was  watching  me  narrowly, 
judged  of  the  truth  of  my  story  by  the  sincerity  of  my  appe- 
tite. All  of  a  sudden,  after  having  said  that  he  saw  perfectly 
well  that  I  was  a  good  and  true  j'oung  fellow  that  did  not 
come  to  betray  him,  he  opened  a  little  trap-door  by  the  side 
of  his  kitchen,  went  down  and  returned  a  moment  after- 
wards with  a  good  brown  loaf  of  pure  wheat,  the  remains  of 
a  toothsome  ham,  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  the  sight  of  which 
rejoiced  my  heart  more  than  all  the  rest.  To  these  he 
added  a  good  thick  omelette,  and  I  made  such  a  dinner  as 
none  but  a  walker  ever  enjoyed.  When  it  came  to  pay,  lo! 
his  disquietude  and  fears  again  seized  him ;  he  would  none  of 
my  money,  and  rejected  it  with  extraordinary  manifestations 
of  disquiet.  The  funniest  part  of  the  matter  was,  that  I 
could  not  conceive  what  he  was  afraid  of.  At  length,  with 
fear  and  trembling,  he  pronoimced  those  terrible  words, 
Commissioners  and  Cellar-ratx.  He  gave  me  to  understand 
that  he  concealed  his  wine  because  of  the  excise,  and  his 
bread  on  account  of  the  tax,  and  that  he  was  a  lost  man  if 
they  got  the  slightest  inkling  that  he  was  not  dying  of  hunger. 
Every  thing  he  said  to  me  touching  this  matter,  whereof, 


272       Classic  French   Course  in  English. 

indeed,  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea,  produced  an  impression 
on  mtj  that  can  never  be  effaced.  It  became  the  germ  of 
that  inextinguishable  hatred  that  afterwards  sprang  up  in 
my  heart  against  the  vexations  to  which  these  poor  people 
are  subject,  and  against  their  oppressors.  This  man,  though 
in  easy  circumstances,  dared  not  eat  the  bread  he  had  gained 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  and  could  escape  ruin  only  by 
presenting  the  appearance  of  the  same  misery  that  reigned 
aroimd  him. 

A  hideously  false  world,  that  world  of  French 
society  was,  in  Rousseau's  time.  The  falseness  was 
full  ripe  to  be  laid  bare  by  some  one ;  and  Rous- 
seau's experience  of  life,  as  well  as  his  temperament 
and  his  genius,  fitted  him  to  do  the  work  of  expos- 
ure that  he  did.  What  we  emphatically  call  char- 
acter was  sadly  wanting  in  Rousseau  —  how  sadly, 
witness  such  an  acted  piece  of  mad  folly  as  the 
foUowiug :  — 

I,  without  knowing  aught  of  the  matter,  .  .  .  gave  myself 
out  for  a  [musical]  composer.  Nor  was  this  all:  having 
been  presented  to  M.  de  Freytorens,  law-professor,  who 
loved  music,  and  gave  concerts  at  his  house,  nothing  would 
do  but  I  must  give  him  a  sample  of  my  talent;  so  I  set  about 
composing  a  piece  for  his  concert  quite  as  boldly  as  though 
I  had  really  been  an  adept  in  the  science.  I  had  the  con- 
stancy to  work  for  fifteen  days  on  this  fine  alTair,  to  copy  it 
fair,  write  out  the  different  parts,  and  distribute  them  v.ith 
as  much  assurance  as  though  it  had  been  a  masterpiece  of 
harmony.  Tlien,  what  will  scarcely  be  believed,  but  which 
yet  is  gospel  trucb,  worthily  to  crown  this  sublime  produc- 
tion, I  tackeJ  to  the  (.n;l  tliereof  a  pretty  minuet  which  was 
then  having  a  run  on  the  streets.  ...  I  gave  it  as  my  own 


Rousseau.  273 

just  as  resolutely  as  thougli  I  had  been  speaking  to  inhabit- 
ants of  the  moon. 

They  assembled  to  perform  my  piece.  I  explain  to  each 
the  nature  of  the  movement,  the  style  of  execution,  and  the 
relations  of  the  parts  —  I  was  very  full  of  business.  For 
five  or  six  minutes  they  were  tuning;  to  me  each  minute 
seemed  an  age.  At  length,  all  being  ready,  I  rap  with  a 
handsome  pajjcr  bAton  on  the  leader's  desk  the  five  or  six 
beats  of  the  ^^  Make  ready. ^^  Silence  is  made  —  I  gravely 
set  to  beating  time  —  they  commence !  No,  never  since 
French  operas  began,  was  there  such  a  churitari  heard. 
Whatever  they  might  have  thought  of  my  pretended  talent, 
the  effect  was  worse  than  they  could  possibly  have  imagined. 
The  musicians  choked  with  laughter;  the  auditors  opened 
their  eyes,  and  would  fain  have  closed  their  ears.  But  that 
was  an  impossibility.  My  tormenting  set  of  symphonists, 
who  seemed  rather  to  enjoy  the  fun,  scraped  away  with  a 
din  sufficient  to  crack  the  tympanum  of  one  born  deaf.  I 
had  the  firmness  to  go  right  ahead,  however,  sweating,  it  is 
true,  at  every  pore,  but  held  back  by  shame ;  not  daring  to 
retreat,  and  glued  to  the  spot.  For  my  consolation  I  heard 
the  company  whispering  to  each  other,  quite  loud  enough  for 
it  to  reach  my  ear:  "It  is  not  bearable!*'  said  one.  "What 
music  gone  mad! "  cried  another.  "  What  a  devilish  din!  " 
added  a  third.  Poor  Jean  Jacques,  little  dreamed  you,  in 
that  cruel  moment,  that  one  day  before  the  King  of  France 
and  all  the  court,  thy  sounds  would  excite  murmurs  of  sur- 
prise and  applause,  and  that  in  all  the  boxes  around  thee 
the  loveliest  ladies  would  burst  forth  witli,  "  What  charming 
sounJs!  what  enchanting  music!  every  strain  reaches  the 
heart!" 

But  what  restored  every  one  to  good  humor  was  the 
minuet.  Scarcely  had  they  played  a  few  measures  than  I 
heard  bursts  of  laughter  break  out  on  all  hands.  Every  f>ne 
congratulated  me  on  my  fine  musical  taste;  they  assure!  me 
that  this  minuet  would  make  me  spoken  about,  and  that  I 


274       C lassie  French'  Course  in  Enylish. 

merited  the  loudest  praises.    I  need  not  attempt  depicting 
my  agony,  nor  own  that  I  well  deserved  it. 


Readers  have  now  had  an  opportunity  to  judge  for 
themselves,  by  specimen,  of  the  style,  both  of  the 
writer  and  of  the  man  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau. 
The  writer's  st^'le  they  must  have  felt,  even  through 
the  medium  of  imperfect  anonymous  translation,  to 
be  a  charming  one.  If  they  have  felt  the  style  of 
the  man  to  be  contrasted,  as  squalor  is  contrasted 
with  splendor,  that  they  must  not  suppose  to  be  a 
contrast  of  which  Jean  Jacques  himself,  the  con- 
fessor, was  in  the  least  displacently  conscious.  Far 
from  it.  In  a  later  part  of  his  "Confessions,"  a 
part  that  deals  with  the  author  as  one  already  now 
acknowledged  a  power  in  the  world  of  letters,  though 
with  all  his  chief  works  still  to  write,  Rousseau 
speaks  thus  of  himself  (he  was  considering  at  the 
time  the  ways  and  means  available  to  him  of  obtain- 
ing a  livelihood)  :  — 

I  felt  that  writing  for  bread  would  soon  have  extinguished 
my  genius,  and  destroyed  my  talents,  which  were  less  in  my 
pen  than  in  my  heart,  and  solely  proceeded  from  an  elevated 
and  noble  manner  of  thinking.  ...  It  is  too  difficult  to 
think  nobly  when  we  think  for  a  livelihood. 

Is  not  that  finely  said  ?  And  one  need  not  doubt 
that  it  was  said  with  perfect  sincerity.  For  our 
own  part,  paradoxical  thou<ih  it  be  to  declare  it,  we 
are  wholly  willing  to  insist  that  Rousseau  did  think 


Rousseau.  275 

on  a  lofty  plane.  The  trouble  with  him  was,  not 
that  he  thus  thought  with  his  heart,  rather  than  with 
his  head,  —  which,  however,  he  did,  —  but  that  he 
thought  with  his  heart  alone,  and  not  at  all  with 
his  conscience  and  his  will.  In  a  word,  his  thought 
was  sentiment  rather  than  thought.  He  was  a  senti- 
mentalist instead  of  a  thinker.  One  illustration  of 
the  divorce  that  he  decreed  for  himself,  or  rather  — 
for  we  have  used  too  positive  a  form  of  expression 
—  that  he  allowed  to  subsist,  between  sentiment 
and  conduct,  will  suffice.  It  was  presentl}'  to  be 
his  fortune,  as  author  of  a  tract  on  education  (the 
' '  fimile  " ) ,  to  change  the  habit  of  a  nation  in  the 
matter  of  nurture  for  babes.  French  mothers  of 
the  higher  social  class  in  Rousseau's  time  almost 
universally  gave  up  their  infants  to  be  nursed  at 
alien  bosoms.  Rousseau  so  eloquently  denounced 
the  unnaturalness  of  this,  that  from  his  time  it  be- 
came the  fashion  for  French  mothers  to  suckle  their 
children  themselves.  Meantime,  the  preacher  him- 
self of  this  beautiful  humanity,  living  in  unwedded 
union  with  a  womun  (not  Madame  de  Warens,  but  a 
woman  of  the  laboring  class,  found  after  Madame  de 
AVarciis  was  abandoned),  sent  his  illegitimate  chil- 
dren, against  the  mother's  remonstrance,  one  after 
another,  to  the  number  of  five,  to  be  brought  up  un- 
known at  the  hospital  for  foundlings  !  He  tells  the 
story  himself  in  his  "Confessions."  Tlws  course 
on  his  own  part  he  subsequently  laments  with  many 
tears  and  many  self-upbraidings.     But  these,  alas, 


276       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

he  intermingles  with  self-justifications,  nearly  as 
many,  —  so  that  at  last  it  is  hard  to  say  whether  the 
balance  of  his  judgment  inclines  for  or  against  him- 
self in  the  matter.  A  paradox  of  inconsistencies 
and  self-contradictions,  this  man,  —  a  problem  in 
human  character,  of  which  the  supposition  of  partial 
insanity  in  him,  long  working  subtly  in  the  blood, 
seems  the  only  solution.  The  occupation  finally 
adopted  by  Rousseau  for  obtaining  subsistence,  was 
the  copying  of  music.  It  extorts  from  one  a  meas- 
ure of  involuntary  respect  for  Rousseau,  to  see 
patiently  toiling  at  this  slavish  work,  to  earn  its 
owner  bread,  the  same  pen  that  had  lately  set  all 
Europe  in  ferment  with  the  "  fimile  "  and  "  The  So- 
cial Contract." 

From  Rousseau's  "  Confessions,"  we  have  not 
room  to  purvey  further.  It  is  a  melancholy  book,  — ■ 
written  under  monomaniac  suspicion  on  the  part  of 
the  author  that  he  was  the  object  of  a  wide-spread 
conspiracy  against  his  reputation,  his  peace  of  mind, 
and  even  his  life.  The  poor,  shattered,  self-con- 
sumed sensualist  and  sentimentalist  paid  dear  in  the 
agonies  of  his  closing  3"ears  for  the  indulgences  of 
an  unregulated  life.  The  tender-hearted,  really* 
affectionate  and  loyal,  friend  came  at  length  to  live 
in  a  world  of  his  own  imagination,  full  of  treachery 
to  himself.  David  Hume,  the  Scotchman,  tried  to 
befriend  him  ;  but  the  monomaniac  was  iucapable  of 
being  befriended.  Nothing  could  be  more  pitiful 
than   were    the    decline    and    the    extinction   that 


Rousseau.  211 

occurred  of  so  much  brilliant  genius,  and  so  much 
lovable  character.  It  is  even  doubtful  whether 
Rousseau  did  not  at  last  take  his  own  life.  The 
voice  of  accusation  is  silenced,  in  the  presence  of 
an  earthly  retribution  so  dreadful.  One  may  not 
indeed  approve,  but  one  may  at  least  be  free  to  pity, 
more  than  he  blames,  in  judging  Rousseau. 

Accompanying,  and  in  some  sort  complementing, 
the  "Confessions,"  are  often  published  several 
detached  pieces  called  "Reveries,"  or  "Walks." 
These  are  very  peculiar  compositions,  and  very 
characteristic  of  the  author.  They  are  dreamy 
meditations  or  reveries,  sad,  even  sombre,  in  spirit, 
but  "  beautiful  exceedingly,"  in  form  of  expression. 
Such  works  as  the  "  Ren6 "  of  Chateaubriand, 
works  but  too  abundant  since  in  French  literature, 
must  all  trace  their  pedigree  to  Rousseau's  "  Walks." 
We  introduce  two  specimen  extracts.  The  shadow 
of  Rousseau's  monomania  will  be  felt  thick  upon 
them  :  — 

It  Is  now  fifteen  years  since  I  have  been  in  this  strange 
situation,  which  yet  appears  to  me  lilie  a  dream;  ever  im- 
agining tliat,  disturbed  by  indigestion,  I  sleep  uneasily,  but 
shall  soon  awake,  freed  from  my  troubles,  but  surrounded 
by  my  friends.  .  .  . 

How  could  I  possibly  foresee  the  destiny  that  awaited 
me  ?  .  .  .  Could  I,  if  in  my  right  senses,  suppose  that  one 
day,  the  man  I  was,  and  yet  remain,  should  be  taken,  with- 
out any  kind  of  doubt,  for  a  monster,  a  poisoner,  an  assas- 
sin, the  horror  of  the  liuman  race,  the  sport  of  the  rabble, 
my  only  salutation  to  be  spit  upon,  and  that  a  whole  genera- 


278      Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

tion  would  unanimously  amuse  themselves  in  burying  me 
alive  ?  When  this  strange  revolution  first  happened,  taken 
by  unawares,  I  was  overwhelmed  with  astonishment ;  my 
agitation,  my  indignation,  plunged  me  into  a  delirium, 
which  ten  years  have  scarcely  been  able  to  calm  :  during 
this  interval,  falling  from  error  to  error,  from  fault  to  fault, 
and  folly  to  folly,  I  have,  by  my  imprudence,  furnished  the 
contrivers  of  my  fate  with  instruments,  which  they  have 
artfully  employed  to  fix  it  without  resom-ce.  .  .  . 

Every  future  occurrence  will  be  immaterial  to  me  ;  I  have 
in  the  world  neither  relative,  friend,  nor  brother  ;  I  am  on 
the  earth  as  if  I  had  fallen  into  some  unknown  planet ;  if 
I  contemplate  any  thing  around  me,  it  is  only  distressing, 
heart-rending  objects  ;  every  thing  I  cast  my  pyes  on  conveys 
some  new  subject  either  of  indignation  or  aifliction  ;  I  will 
endeavor  henceforward  to  banish  from  my  mind  all  painful 
ideas  which  unavailingly  distress  me.  Alone  for  the  rest  of 
my  life,  I  must  only  look  for  consolation,  hope,  or  peace  in 
my  own  breast;  and  neither  ought  nor  will,  henceforward, 
think  of  any  thing  but  myself.  It  is  in  this  slate  that  I  re- 
turn to  the  continuation  of  that  severe  and  just  examination 
which  formerly  I  called  my  Confessions  ;  I  consecrate  my 
latter  days  to  the  study  of  myself,  and  to  the  preparation  of 
that  account  which  I  must  shortly  render  up  of  my  actions. 
I  resign  my  thoughts  entirely  to  the  pleasure  of  conversing 
with  my  own  soul  ;  that  being  the  only  consolation  that 
man  cannot  deprive  me  of.  If  by  dint  of  reflection  on  my 
internal  propensities,  I  can  attain  to  putting  them  in  better 
order,  and  correcting  the  evil  that  remains  in  me,  these 
meditations  will  not  be  utterly  useless  ;  and  though  I  am 
accounted  worthless  on  earth,  shall  not  cast  away  my  latter 
days.  The  leisure  of  my  daily  walks  has  frequently  been 
filled  with  charming  contemplations,  wliich  I  regret  having 
forgot  ;  but  I  will  write  down  those  that  occur  in  future  ; 
then,  every  time  I  read  them  over,  I  shall  forget  my  misfor- 


Mousseau.  279 

cunes,  disgraces,  and  persecutors,  in  recollecting  and  con- 
templating the  integrity  of  my  own  lieart. 

Rousseau's  books  in  general  are  now  little  read. 
They  worked  their  work,  and  ceased.  But  there  are 
in  some  of  them  passages  that  continue  to  live. 
Of  these,  perhaps  quite  the  most  famous  is  the 
"  Savoyard  Curate's  Confession  of  Faith,"  a  docu- 
ment of  some  lengtlr,  incorporated  into  the  "  fimile." 
This,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  the  most  seductively  elo- 
quent argument  against  Christianity  that  perhaps 
ever  was  written.  It  contains,  however,  concessions 
to  the  sublime  elevation  of  Scripture  and  to  the 
unique  virtue  and  majesty  of  Jesus,  which  are  often 
quoted,  and  which  will  bear  quoting  here.  The 
Savoyard  Curate  is  represented  speaking  to  a  young 
friend  as  follows  :  — 

I  will  confess  to  you  further,  that  the  majesty  of  the 
fecriptures  strikes  me  with  admiration,  as  the  purity  of  the 
gospel  hath  its  influence  on  ray  heart.  Peruse  the  works  of 
our  philosophers  with  all  their  pomp  of  diction  ;  how  mean, 
how  contemptible,  are  they,  compared  with  the  Scripture  ! 
Is  it  possible  that  a  book  at  once  so  simple  and  sublime 
should  be  merely  the  work  of  man  ?  Is  it  possible  that  the 
Sacred  Personage,  whose  history  it  contains,  should  be  him- 
self a  mere  man  ?  Do  we  find  that  he  assumed  the  tone  of 
an  enthusiast  or  ambitious  sectary  ?  What  sweetness,  what 
purity,  in  his  manners  !  What  an  affecting  gracefulness  in 
his  delivery  !  What  sublimity  in  his  maxims  !  What  pro- 
found wisdom  in  his  discourses  !  What  presence  of  mind, 
what  subtilty,  what  truth,  in  his  replies  !  How  great  the 
command  over  his  passions  !    Where  is  the  man,  where  the 


280      Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

philosopher,  who  could  so  live  and  die,  without  weakness 
and  without  ostentation  ?  When  Plato  described  his  imagi- 
nary good  man  loaded  with  all  the  sliame  of  guilt,  yet  mer- 
iting tlie  highest  reward  of  virtue,  lie  described  exactly  the 
character  of  Jesus  Christ  :  the  resemblance  was  so  striking 
that  all  the  Fathers  perceived  it. 

What  prepossession,  what  blindness,  must  it  be  to  compare 
the  son  of  Sophroniscus  to  the  Son  of  Mary  !  What  an  in- 
finite disproportion  there  is  between  them  !  Socrates,  dying 
without  pain  or  ignominy,  easily  supported  his  character  to 
the  last ;  and  if  his  death,  however  easy,  had  not  crowned 
his  life,  it  might  have  been  doubted  whether  Socrates,  with 
all  his  wisdom,  was  any  thing  more  than  a  vain  sophist. 
He  invented,  it  is  said,  the  theory  of  morals.  Others,  how- 
ever, had  before  put  them  in  practice  ;  he  had  only  to  say 
what  they  had  done,  and  reduce  their  examples  to  precepts. 
Aristides  had  been  just  before  Socrates  defined  justice  ; 
Leonidas  gave  up  his  life  for  his  country  before  Socrates  de- 
clared patriotism  to  be  a  duty  ;  the  Spartans  were  a  sober 
people  before  Socrates  recommended  sobriety  ;  before  he  had 
even  defined  virtue,  Greece  abounded  in  virtuous  men.  But 
where  could  Jesus  learn,  among  his  compatriots,  that  pure 
and  sublime  morality  of  which  he  only  has  given  us  both 
precept  and  example  ?  The  greatest  wisdom  was  made 
known  amidst  the  most  bigoted  fanaticism,  and  the  simpli- 
city of  the  most  heroic  virtues  did  honor  to  the  vilest  people 
on  the  earth.  The  death  of  Socrates,  peaceably  philosophiz- 
ing with  his  friends,  appears  the  most  agreeable  that  could 
be  wished  for  ;  that  of  Jesus,  expiring  in  the  midst  of  ago- 
nizing pains,  abused,  insulted,  cursed  by  a  whole  nation,  is 
the  most  horrible  that  could  be  feared,  Socrates,  in  receiv- 
ing the  cup  of  poison,  blessed  indeed  the  weeping  execu- 
tioner who  administered  it  ;  but  Jesus,  in  the  midst  of 
excruciating  tortures,  prayed  for  his  merciless  tormentors. 
Yes,  if  the  life  and  death  of  Socrates  are  those  of  a  sage, 
the  life  and  death  of  Jesus  are  those  of  a  God.    Shall  we 


Rousseau.  281 

suppose  the  evangelic  history  a  mere  fiction  ?  Indeed,  my 
friend,  it  bears  not  the  marks  of  fiction  ;  on  the  contrary, 
the  history  of  Socrates,  whicli  nobody  pre5umes  to  doubt,  is 
not  so  well  attested  as  that  of  Jesus  Christ.  Such  a  suppo- 
sition, in  fact,  only  shifts  tlie  difficulty  without  removing  it ; 
it  is  more  inconceivable  that  a  number  of  persons  should 
agree  to  write  such  a  history,  than  that  one  only  should  fur- 
nish the  subject  of  it.  The  Jewish  authors  were  incapable 
of  the  diction,  and  strangers  to  the  morality  contained  in 
the  gospel,  the  marks  of  whose  truth  are  so  striking  and 
inimitable  that  the  inventor  would  be  a  more  astonishing 
character  than  the  hero. 

So  far  in  eloquent  ascription  of  incomparable  ex- 
cellence to  the  Bible  and  to  the  Founder  of  Christi- 
anit}'.  But  then  immediately  Rousseau's  Curate 
proceeds :  — 

And  yet,  with  all  this,  the  same  gospel  abounds  with 
incredible  relations,  with  circumstances  repugnant  to  rea- 
son, and  which  it  is  impossible  for  a  man  of  sense  either  to 
conceive  or  admit. 

The  compliment  to  Christianity  almost  convinces 
you,  —  until  suddenly  you  are  apprised  that  the  au- 
thor of  the  compliment  was  not  convinced  himself ! 

Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  in  the  preface  to  his 
*'•  Confessions,"  appealed  from  the  judgment  of  men 
to  the  judgment  of  God.  This  judgment  it  was  his 
habit,  to  the  end  of  his  days,  thanks  to  the  effect 
of  his  early  Genevan  education,  always  to  think  of 
as  certainly  impending.  Let  us  adjourn  our  filial 
sentence  upon  him,  until  we  hear  that  Omniscient 
award. 
19 


282       Classic  French  Course  in  J^njlish. 
XVII. 

THE  ENCYCLOPEDISTS. 

A  CENOTAPH  is  a  monument  erected  to  the  memory 
of  one  dead,  but  not  marking  the  spot  in  which  his 
remains  rest.  The  present  chapter  is  a  cenotaph  to 
the  French  Enc3'clop8edists.  It  is  in  the  nature  of 
a  memorial  of  their  literary  work,  but  it  will  be 
found  to  contain  no  specimen  extracts  from  their 
writings. 

Everybody  has  heard  of  the  Encyclopaedists  of 
France.  Who  are  they?  They  are  a  group  of  men 
who,  during  the  eighteenth  century,  associated  them- 
selves together  for  the  production  of  a  great  work 
to  be  the  repository  of  all  human  knowledge,  —  in 
one  word,  of  an  encyclopaedia.  The  project  was  a 
laudable  one  ;  and  tlie  motive  to  it  was  laudable  — 
in  part.  For  there  was  mixture  of  motive  in  the 
case.  In  part,  the  motive  was  simple  desire  to 
advance  the  cause  of  human  enlightenment ;  in 
part,  however,  the  motive  was  desire  to  undermine 
Christianity.  This  latter  end  the  encyclopiedist 
collaborators  may  have  thought  to  be  an  indispen- 
sable means  subsidiary  to  the  former  end.  They 
probably  did  think  so  —  with  such  imperfect  sincer- 
ity as  is  possible  to  those  who  set  themselves,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  against  God.     The  faci 


The  EnnycJopoidUH.  283 

is,  that  the  Encyclopaedists  came  ft  length  to  be 
nearly  as  much  occupied  in  exriiiguishing  Christian- 
ity, as  in  promoting  public  enlightenment.  They 
went  about  this  their  task  of  destroying,  in  a  way 
as  effective  as  has  ever  been  devised  for  accomplish- 
ing a  similar  work.  They  gave  a  vicious  turn  of 
insinuation  against  Christianity  to  as  many  arti- 
cles as  possible.  In  the  most  unexpected  places, 
throughout  the  entire  work,  pitfalls  were  laid  of 
anti-Christian  implication,  awaiting  the  unwarv  feet 
of  the  reader.  You  were  nowhere  sure  of  your 
ground.  The  world  has  never  before  seen,  it  has 
never  seen  since,  an  example  of  propagandism  alto- 
gether so  adroit  and  so  alert.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  further,  that  history  can  supi)ly  few  instances 
of  propagandism  so  successful.  The  Encyclopae- 
dists might  almost  be  said  to  have  given  the  human 
mind  a  fresh  start  and  a  new  orbit.  The  fresh 
start  is,  perhaps,  spent ;  the  new  orbit  has  at  length, 
to  a  great  extent,  returned  upon  the  old  ;  but  it 
holds  true,  nevertheless,  that  the  Encyclopedists  of 
France  were  for  a  time,  and  that  not  a  short  time, 
a  prodigious  force  of  impulsion  and  direction  to  the 
Occidental  mind.  It  ought  to  be  added  tliat  the 
aim  of  the  Encyclopaedists  was  political  also,  not 
less  than  religious.  In  truth,  religion  and  politics. 
Church  and  State,  in  their  day,  and  in  France,  were 
much  the  same  thing.  The  "Encyclopaedia"  was 
as  revolutionary  in  politics  as  it  was  atheistic  in 
religion. 


284       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

•  The  leader  in  this  movement  of  insurrectionai'y 
thought  was  Denis  Diderot.  Diderot  (1713-1784) 
was  born  to  be  an  encyclopaedist,  and  a  captain  of 
encyclopaedists.  Force  inexhaustible,  and  inex- 
haustible willingness  to  give  out  force  ;  unappeas- 
able curiosity  to  know  ;  irresistible  impulse  to  impart 
knowledge  ;  versatile  capacity  to  do  every  thing,  car- 
ried to  the  verge,  if  not  carried  beyond  the  verge, 
of  incapacity  to  do  any  thing  thoroughly  well ; 
quenchless  zeal  and  quenchless  hope  ;  levitj'^  enough 
of  temper  to  keep  its  subject  free  from  those  depres- 
sions of  spirit  and  those  cares  of  conscience  which 
weigh  and  wear  on  the  over-earnest  man  ;  abundant 
physical  health, — gifts  such  as  these  made  up  the 
manifold  equipment  of  Diderot  for  rowing  and  steer- 
ing the  gigantic  enterprise  of  tlie  "  P2ncyclopi«dia  " 
triumphantly  to  the  port  of  final  completion,  through 
.  man}'  and  many  a  zone  of  stormy  adverse  wind  and 
sea,  traversed  on  the  way.  Diderot  produced  no 
signal  independent  and  original  work  of  his  own  ; 
probably  he  could  not  have  produced  such  a  work. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  simply  .just  to  say  that 
hardly  anybody  but  Diderot  could  have  achieved  the 
"  Encyclopaedia."  That,  indeed,  may  be  considered 
an  achievement  not  more  to  the  glory,  than  to  the 
shame,  of  its  author ;  but  whatever  its  true  moral 
character,  in  whatever  proportion  shameful  or  gloii- 
ous,  it  is  inalienably  and  peculiarly  Diderot's  achieve- 
ment ;  at  least  in  this  sense,  that  without  Diderot  the 
"  Encyclopaedia  "  would  never  have  been  achieved. 


The  Encydopcedists.  285 

We  have  already,  in  discussing  Voltaire,  adverted 
sufficiently  to  Mr.  John  Morley's  volumes  in  honor 
of  Diderot  and  his  compeers.  Diderot  is  therein 
ably  presented  in  the  best  possible  light  to  the 
reader ;  and  we  are  bound  to  say,  that,  despite  Mr. 
Morley's  friendly  endeavors,  Diderot  therein  appears 
very  ill.  He  maiTied  a  young  woman,  whose  simple 
and  touching  self-sacrifice  on  her  husband's  behalf, 
he  presently  requited  b}'  giving  himself  away,  body 
and  soul,  to  a  rival.  In  his  writings,  he  is  so  easily 
insincere,  that  not  unfrequently  it  is  a  problem,  even 
for  his  biographer,  to  decide  when  he  is  expressing 
his  sentiments  truly  and  when  not ;  insomuch  that, 
once  and  again,  Mr.  Morley  himself  is  obliged  to 
say,  "This  is  probably  hypocritical  on  Diderot's 
part,"  or  something  to  that  effect.  As  for  filthy 
communication  out  of  his  mouth  and  from  his  pen, — 
not,  of  course,  habitual,  but  ocgasional,  —  the  subject 
will  not  bear  more  than  this  mention.  These  be  thy 
gods,  0  Atheism !  one,  in  reading  Mr.  Morley  on 
Diderot,  is  tempted  again  and  again  to  exclaim. 
To  offset  such  lowness  of  character  in  the  man,  it 
must  in  justice  be  added  that  Diderot  was,  notwith- 
standing, of  a  generous,  uncalculating  turn  of  miud, 
not  grudging,  especially  in  intellectual  relations,  to 
give  of  his  best  to  others,  expecting  nothing  again. 
Diderot,  too,  as  well  as  Voltaire,  had  his  royal  or 
Imperial  friends,  in  the  notorious  Empress  Catheiiue 
of  Russia,  and  in  King  Stauislaus  of  Polan*.  He 
visited  Catherine  once  iu  her  capital,  and  was  there 


286       Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

munificently  entertained  by  her.  She  was  regally 
pleased  to  humor  this  gentleman  of  France,  permit- 
ting him  to  bring  down  his  fist  in  gesture  violently 
on  the  redoubtable  royal  knee,  according  to  a  pleas- 
ant way  Diderot  had  of  emphasizing  a  point  in 
familiar  conversation.  His  truest  claim  to  praisa 
for  intellectual  superiority  is,  perhaps,  that  he  was 
a  prolific  begetter  of  wit  in  other  men. 

D'Alembert  (Jean  le  Rond,  1717-1783)  vras 
an  eminent  mathematician.  He  wrote  especially, 
though  not  at  first  exclusively,  on  mathematical 
subjects,  for  the  "Encyclopedia."  He  was,  in- 
deed, at  the  outset,  published  as  mathematical  editor 
of  the  work.  His  European  reputation  in  science 
made  his  name  a  tower  of  strength  to  the  "Enc3'clo- 
psedia," — even  after  he  ceased  to  be  an  editorial 
coadjutor  in  the  enterprise.  For  there  came  a 
time  when  D'Alembert  abdicated  responsibility  as 
editor,  and  left  the  undertaking  to  fr.ll  heavily  on 
the  single  shoulder,  Atlantean  shoulder  it  proved  to 
be,  of  Diderot.  The  celebrated  "Preliminary  Dis- 
course," prefixed  to  the  "  Enc3X'lop8edia,"  proceeded 
from  the  hand  of  D'Alembert.  This  has  always 
been  esteemed  a  masterpiece  of  comprehensive  grasp 
and  lucid  exposition.  A  less  creditable  contribu- 
tion of  D'Alembert's  to  the  "  Enc^xlopaedia  "  was 
his  article  on  "  Geneva,"  in  the  course  of  which,  at 
the  instance  of  Voltaire,  who  wanted  a  chance  to 
have  his  plays  represented  in  that  city,  he  went  out 
of  his  way  to  recommend  to  the  Genevans  that  they 


The  Encyclopcedists.  287 

establish  for  themselves  a  theatre.  This  brought 
out  Rousseau  iu  an  eloquent  Iiarangue  against  the 
theatre  as  exerting  influence  to  debauch  public 
morals.  D'Alembcrt,  in  the  contest,  did  not  cairy 
oflf  the  honors  of  the  day.  D'Alembert's  "  £loges," 
so  called,  a  series  of  characterizations  and  appre- 
ciations written  by  the  author  in  his  old  age,  of 
members  of  the  French  Academy,  enjoj-  deserved 
reputation  for  sagacious  intellectual  estimate,  and 
for  clear,  though  not  supremely  elegant,  style  of 
composition. 

Diderot  and  D'Alembert  are  the  only  men  whose 
names  appear  on  the  titlepage  of  the  ' '  Encyclopae- 
dia;" but  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  Turgot,  Helvetius, 
Duclos,  Condillac,  Buffon,  Grimm,  D'Holbach,  with 
many  others  whom  we  must  not  stay  even  to  men- 
tion, contributed  to  the  work. 

The  influence  of  the  "  Enc3-clop£edia,"  great  dur- 
ing its  day,  is  by  no  means  yet  exhausted.  But  it 
is  an  influence  indirectly  exerted,  for  the  ''  Encyclo- 
paedia "  itself  has  long  been  an  obsolete  work. 

There  is  a  legal  maxim  that  the  laws  are  silent, 
when  a  state  of  war  exists.  Certainly,  amid  the 
madness  of  a  Revolution  such  as,  during  the  closing 
years  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  influence  of 
Voltaire,  Rousseau,  and  the  Encyclopaedists,  with 
Beaumarchais,  reacting  against  tlie  accumulated  po- 
litical and  ecclesiastical  oppressions  of  ages,  precip- 
itated upon  France,  it  might  safely  be  assumed 
that  letters  would  be  silent.     But  the  nation  mean* 


288        Claxaic  French  Course  in   EngliJi. 

time  waa  portentously  preparing  material  foi  a  litera- 
ture wliich  many  wondering  centuries  to  follow  would 
occupy  themselves  with  writing. 


XVIII. 

EPILOGUE. 


In  looking  backward  over  the  preceding  pages, 
we  think  of  many  things  which  we  should  like  still 
to  say.  Of  these  many  things,  we  limit  ourselves 
to  saying  here,  as  briefly  as  we  can,  some  four  or 
five  only. 

To  begin  with,  in  nearly  everj'  successive  case, 
we  have  found  ourselves  lamenting  afresh  that,  from 
the  authors  to  be  represented,  the  representative  ex- 
tracts must  needs  be  so  few  and  so  short.  We  have, 
therefore,  sincerely  begrudged  to  ourselves  every 
line  of  room  that  we  felt  obliged  to  occupy  with 
matter,  preparatory,  explanatory,  or  critical,  of  our 
own.  Whatever  success  we  may  have  achieved  in 
fulfilling  our  purpose,  our  purpose  has  been  to  say 
ourselves  barely  so  much  as  was  indispensable  in 
order  finally  to  convey,  upon  the  whole,  to  our  read- 
ers, within  the  allotted  space,  the  justest  and  the 
fullest  impression  of  the  selected  uuthors,  through 
the  medium  of  their  own  quoted  words. 

In  the  second  place,  it  was  with  great  regret  that 
we  yielded  to  the  necessity  of  omitting  entirely,  ox 


Epilogue.  .289 

dismissing  with  scant  mention,  such  literary  names, 
for  example,  as  Boileau,  of  the  age  of  Louis  Qua- 
torze,  and,  a  little  later  than  he,  Fontenelle,  span- 
ning with  his  century  of  years  the  space  from  1657 
to  1757,  —  these,  aud,  belonging  to  the  period  that 
ushered  in  the  Kevolution,  Bernardin  St.  Pierre, 
the  teller  of  the  tale  of  "'  Paul  and  Virginia,"  with 
also  that  hero  of  a  hundred  romantic  adventures, 
Beaumarchais,  half  Themistocles,  half  Alcibiades, 
the  author  of ''The  Barber  of  Seville."  The  line 
had  to  be  drawn  somewhere  ;  and,  whether  wisely  or 
not,  at  least  thoughtfully,  we  drew  it  to  run  as  it  does. 

A  third,  aud  a  yet  graver,  occasion  of  regret  was 
that  we  must  stop  short  on  the  threshold,  without 
crossing  it,  of  the  nineteenth-century  literature  of 
France.  With  so  many  shining  names  seen  just 
ahead  of  us,  beacon-like,  to  invite  our  advance,  we 
felt  it  as  a  real  self-denial  to  stay  our  steps  at  that 
point.  We  hope  still  to  deal  with  Chateaubriand, 
Madame  de  Stael,  Lamartine,  Alfred  de  Musset, 
Sainte-Beuve,  Victor  Hugo,  and  perhaps  others,  in 
a  future  volume. 

Our  eye  is  caught  with  the  antithetical  terms, 
"classicism"  and  "romanticism,"  occurring  here 
aud  there  ;  aud  the  observation  is  forced  upon  us, 
that  these  terms,  in  their  mutual  relation,  are  no- 
where by  us  defined.  The  truth  is,  they  scarcely, 
as  thus  used,  admit  of  hard  and  fast  definition.  It 
is  in  a  somewhat  loose  conventional  sense  of  each 
term;  that,  iu  late  literary  language,  they  are  set 


290        Classic  French  Course  in  English. 

off,  one  over  against  the  other.  They  name  two 
different,  but  by  no  means  necessarily  antagonistic, 
forces  or  tendencies  in  literature.  Classicism  stands 
for  what  you  might  call  the  established  order,  against 
which  romanticism  is  a  revolt.  Paradoxical  though 
it  be  to  say  so,  both  the  established  order,  and  the 
revolt  against  it,  are  good  things.  The  established 
order,  which  was  never  really  any  thing  more  or 
less  than  the  dominance  in  literature  of  rules  and 
standards  derived  through  criticism  from  the  ac- 
knowledged best  models,  especially  the  ancient, 
tended  at  last  to  cramp  and  stifle  the  life  which  it 
should,  of  course,  only  serve  to  shape  and  conform. 
The  mould,  always  too  narrow  perhaps,  but  at  any 
rate  grown  too  rigid,  needed  itself  to  be  fashioned 
anew.  Fresh  life,  a  full  measure,  would  do  this. 
Such  is  the  true  mission  of  romanticism,  —  not  to 
break  the  mould  that  classicism  sought  to  impose 
on  literary  production,  but  to  expand  that  mould, 
make  it  more  pliant,  more  free.  A  mould,  for 
things  living  and  growing,  should  be  plastic  in  the 
passive,  as  well  as  in  the  active,  sense  of  that  word, 
—  should  accept  form,  as  well  as  give  form.  Ro- 
manticism will  accordingly  have  won  its  legitimate 
victory,  not  when  it  shall  have  destroyed  classicism 
and  replaced  it,  but  when  it  shall  have  made  classi- 
cism over,  after  the  law  of  a  larger  life.  To  risk  a 
concrete  illustration  —  among  our  American  poets, 
Bryant,  in  the  perfectly  self-consistent  .unity  of  his 
whole  intellectual  development,  may  be  said  to  rep- 


Epilogue.  291 

resent  classicism  ;  while  in  Lowell,  as  Lowell  ap- 
pears in  the  later,  moi-e  protracted,  phase  of  his 
genius,  romanticism  is  represented.  The  "  Thana- 
topsis  "  of  Bryant  and  the  "Cathedral"  of  Lowell 
maj'  stand  for  individual  examples  respectively  of 
the  classic  and  the  romantic  styles  in  poetr}'.  Com- 
pare these  two  productions,  and  in  the  difference 
between  the  chaste,  well-pruned  severity  of  the  one, 
and  the  indulged,  perhaps  stimulated,  luxuriance  of 
the  other,  you  will  feel  the  difference  between  classi- 
cism and  romanticism.  But  Victor  Hugo  is  the 
great  recent  romanticist;  and  when,  hereafter,  we 
come  to  speak  somewhat  at  large  of  him,  it  will  be 
seasonable  to  enter  more  fully  into  the  question  of 
these  two  tendencies  in  literature. 

We  cannot  consent  to  have  said  here  our  very 
last  word,  without  emphasizing  once  again  our  sense 
of  the  really  extraordinary  pervasiveness  in  French 
literature  of  that  element  in  it  which  one  does  not 
like  to  name,  even  to  condemn  it,  —  we  mean  its 
impurity.  The  influence  of  French  literary'  models, 
very  strong  among  us  just  now,  must  not  be  per- 
mitted insensibly  to  pervert  our  own  cleaner  and 
sweeter  national  habit  and  taste  in  this  matter. 
But  we,  all  of  us  together,  need  to  be  both  vigilant 
and  firm  ;  for  the  beginnings  of  corruption  here  are 
very  insidious.  Let  us  never  grow  ashamed  of  our 
saving  JSaxon  shamefacedness.  They  ma}-  nick- 
name it  prudery,  if  they  wQl ;  but  let  us,  American 
and  English,  for  our  part,  always  take  pride  in  such 
prudery . 


IE"DEX. 


[The  merest  approximation  only  can  be  attempted,  in  hinting  here  the 
pronunciation  of  French  names.  In  general,  the  French  distribute  the 
accent  pretty  evenly  among  all  the  syllables  of  their  words.  We  mark 
an  accent  on  the  final  syllable,  chiefly  in  order  to  correct  a  natural  Eng- 
lish tendency  to  slight  that  syllable  in  pronunciation.  In  a  few  cases,  we 
let  a  well-established  English  pronunciation  stand.  N  notes  a  peculiar 
nasal  sound,  U,  a  peculiar  vowel  sound,  having  no  equivalent  in  English.] 


Ab'6-lard  (1079-1142),  6. 
Academy,  French,  10,  12,  75,  156, 

287. 
^s'chy-lus,  94,  152,  166, 168. 
JS'sop,  85. 
Al-ci-bi'a-des,  280. 
Alembert.    See  D'Alembert- 
Al-ex-au'der  (the  Great),  5, 131. 
Al-ex-an'drine,  5,  86, 153. 
Am-y-ot'  (ameo'),  Jacques  (1513- 

1593),  8. 
An'ge-lo,  Michel,  136. 
Arlosto,  245,  247. 
Ar'is-tot-le,  50. 
Ar-nauld'  (ar-nd')>  AntoiDe  (1812^ 

1694),  119. 
Ar'thur  (King),  5. 
Au'gus-tine,   St.,   lAtin   ChriBtian 

Father,  83. 
Au-gus'tus  (the  Emperor),  131. 

Ba'con,  Francis,  48,  63. 
Ba'kcr,  Jehu,  226. 
Ba'laam,  154. 


B&rzac,  Jean  Louis  Guez  de  (1594- 

1654),  10, 11. 
Beau-mar-chais',  de  (bo-mar-sba'), 

Pierre    Augusiin    Carou   (1732- 

1799),  287,  289. 
Benedictines,  29. 
Boi-leau'-Des-pre-aux'  (bwa-ld'-da> 

pra-o').  Nicolas  (1636-1711),  9, 12, 

14,  83,  84,  167,  168,  171,  289. 
Bolton,  A.  S.,  69. 
BOS-SU-ET' (bo-sli-a'),  Jacques B6- 

nigne  (1627-1704),  11,  12,  77,  127, 

166, 170, 182-188,  205,  206,  224,  225. 
BOUB-DA-LOUE%     Louis     (1632- 

1704),  3,  12,  77, 143,  148,  182,  185, 

188,  189-197, 198,  201,  202. 
Brook  Farm,  38. 

Bry'ant,  William  Cullen,  290,  291. 
Buckle,  Henry  Thomas,  234. 
Buffon  (bilf-foN').  Georges   Louis 

Leclerc  de  (1707-1788),  287. 
Bur'gun-dy,  Duke  of   (1682-1712), 

177,  207,  208,  209,  214,  216. 
Burke,  Edmund,  43,  7&. 

293 


294 


Index. 


Buasy  (bus-se').  Count,  135. 
By'ron,  Lord,  48. 

CsBsar,  Julius,  56,  131. 
Galas  (ca-la'),  Jean,  253. 
Calviu,  John  (1509-1564),  7. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  251,  255. 
Catherine  (Enopress  of  Russia),  285. 
Cham-fort'   (shaN-for'),    Sebastien 

Koch  Nicolas  (1741-1794),  85. 
Chanson  (shaN-soN'^,  5. 
Char-le-magne'  (shar-le-man') ,  5. 
Charles  I.  (of  England),  170, 135. 
Charles  IX.  (of  France),  63. 
Cha-teau-bri-and'   (sha-to-bre-aN'), 

Frangois  Auguste  de  (1768-1848), 

3,  13,  14,  206,  277,  289. 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  5,  20. 
"  Classicism,"  10,  14,  224,  289,  290. 
Claude,  Jean  (1619-1687),  182. 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  7,  34,  43. 
Coraines    (ko-meen'),  Philippe  de 

(1445-1509),  7,25,28. 
Conde  (koN-da'),  Prince  of,  "The 

Great  Conde"  (1621-1686),  144. 
Condillac    (koN-de-yak')i    fitienne 

Bonnet  de  (1715-1780),  287. 
Condorcct     (koN-dor-sa'),     Marie 

Jean  Antoino  Nicolas  Caritat  de 

(1743-1794),  128. 
CORNEIllE      (kor-nalO,     Pierre 

(1606-1684),  2,  11,  12,  16,  78,  79, 

80,  151-166,  167,  168,  169,  170,  182, 

183,  239. 
<iotin  (ko-tSN'),  Abbe,  100. 
Cotton,  Charles  (1630-1687),  44,48. 
Cousin    (koo-zSN'))  Victor    (1792- 

1867),  128. 

D'Alembert  (da-laN-ber'),  Jean  le 
Rond  (1717-1783),  13,  251,  286, 
287. 

Dante,  60,  93,  94, 114. 


David  (King),  198. 

Descartes   (da-karf),  Ren^   (1596- 

1650),  11,  12,  104,  115. 
D'Holbach  (dol-bak'),  Paul  Henri 

Thyry  (1723-1789),  287. 
Dickens,  Charles,  35,  149. 
Diderot    (de-dro'),    Denis     (1713- 

1784),  13,  237,  250,  284,  285,  286, 

287. 
Dryden,  John,  48, 166. 
Duclos   (dU-kl6'),  Charles   Pineau 

(1704-1772),  287. 

"  tlcrasez  VInfame"  252. 
Edinburgh  Review,  140. 
Edward  (the  Black  Prince),  21-25. 
Edwards,  President,  194. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  49,  51,  52, 

61. 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  18. 
EXCYCLOPvEDISTS,  13,  218,  249, 

250,  282-288. 
Epictetus,  65. 
Epicurus,  50. 
Erasmus,  43, 126. 
Euripides,  153, 166, 171. 

Fabliaxix  (fab'le-6'),  6. 

Faugere  (fo-zher'),  Arnaud  Prosper 

p810-        ),128. 
FENELON  (fan-loN'),  Francois  de 

Salignac  de  la  Mothe  (1651-1715), 

12,  85,  177,  178, 181,  205-224. 
Fl^chier  ffla-she-a'),  Esprit  (1632- 

1710),  182. 
Foix  (fwii).  Count  de,  26,  27. 
Fontenelle  (foNt-uel'),  Bernard  le 

Bovier  (1657-1757),  289. 
Franciscans,  29. 
Frederick  (the  Great),  254. 
Friar  John,  40. 
FBOISSART      (frwa-sar'),     Jean 

(1337-1410?),  7, 18-28. 


Index. 


295 


Galllard   (gil-yar'),   Gabriel   Henri 

(1726-1806),  155. 
Gar-gant'ua,  29,  36,  37,  39. 
Gibbon,  Edward,  153. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  83,  225. 
Grignan  (green-yaN'),  Madame  de, 

133. 
Grimm,  Friedrich  Melchior  (1723- 

1807),  287. 
Gulliver's  Travels,  37. 
Guyon   (ge-yoN'),  Madame   (1648- 

1717),  210. 

Hallam,  Henry,  18,  34. 

Havet   (a-va')    (editor   of   Pascal's 

works),  128, 129. 
Htwkesworth,  Dr.,  222. 
Hazlitt,  W.  Carew,  48. 
Helv^tius     (el-va-Be-iiss'),    Clande 

Adrien  (1715-1771),  287. 
Henriette,  Princess,  170. 
Henry  of  Navarre,  63. 
Herod  (King),  198. 
Herodotus,  7, 18. 
Holbach.    See  D'Holbach. 
Homer,  244. 

Hooker  ("  The  judiclouB  ")f  205. 
Horace,  245. 
Hugo  (U-go'),  Victor.    See  Victor 

Hugo. 
Hume,  David,  48,  276. 

Isaiah  (the  prophet),  94. 
Israel,  154. 

James  (King),  210. 

Job,  94,  210. 

John  (the  Baptist),  198. 

John  (King),  21,  22. 

Johnes,  Thomas,  19. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  160,  249. 

Jolnvllle    (zhw4N-vel'^,   Jean     de 

(1224P-1319?),  7. 
Julian  (the  Apostate) ,  178. 


EJmt,  Emmanuel,  42. 
Knox,  John,  198. 

La    Boetle    (la  bo-a-te'),    £tlenne 

(1530-1563),  58,  59. 
LA  BRUTi!:BE(labra.e-ygr'),Jean 

(1646  ?-l 696),  12,  75-81,  153. 
LA  FOIJTAINE  (la  foN-tan'),  Jean 

de  (1621-1695),  12,  81-92. 
Lamartine  (la-mar-ten'),  Alphonse 

Marie  Louis  de   (1790-1869),  14, 

206,  289. 
Langue  d'oc,  4. 
Langue  d'oil,  4. 
Lanier,  Sidney  (1842-1881),  25. 
LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD  (la   r5Bh- 

foo-ko'))  Frangois,  Due  de  (1613- 

1680),  12,  48,  66-75,  131,  147,  148. 
Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  50. 
Louis  LX.  (1215-1270)  (St.  Louis), 

6,7. 
Louis  XI.  (1423-1483),  7. 
Louis  XIII.  (1601-1643),  10,  95. 
Louis  XIV.  (1638-1715)  (Quatorze), 

10,  12, 113, 135, 136,  169,  172,  176, 

181, 184, 189, 190, 198, 199,  200, 207, 

208,  213,  217-219,  223,  255. 
Louis   XV.    (1710-1774),   199,   214, 

254. 
Lou  vols    (loo-vwa'),    Marquis    de, 

142. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  291. 
Lucan,  151, 153,  240. 
Lucretius,  94, 166. 
Luther,  Martin,  7,  40. 

Maintenon  (m&N-tgh-noN')>  Madame 
de  (1635-1719),  172,  181,  210,  211. 

Malherbe  (mal-Srb'),  Frangois  (1555- 
1628),  9, 10, 14. 

Martln(mar-tftN'), Henri  (1810-  ), 
183. 

Mary,  Queen  of  ScoU,  8, 19S. 


296 


Index. 


HASSILLON  (mas-se-yoN'),  Jean 
Baptiate  (1663-1742),  3,  12,  148, 
182,  185,  188,  197-205. 

M'Crie,  Thomas,  119. 

Michael  (the  Archangel),  205. 

Milton,  John,  92,  182,  206,  247. 

MOLIERE  (mo-le-ei-')  (real  name, 
Jean  Baptiste  I'oqueliu,  1622- 
1673),  12,  16,  83,  92-114,  127,  154, 
165,  167,  169,  240. 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  151. 

MONTAIGNE  (mon-tan'),  Michel 
Eyquem  de  (1533-1592),  2,  7,  8, 
44-65,  67,  75, 131,  230, 234,  257,  268. 

Montespan  (moN-tese-paN'),  Ma- 
dame de  (1641-1707),  138, 139, 140. 

MONTESI^UIEU,  de  (moN-tes- 
kf-uh'),  Charles  de  Secondat 
(1689-1755),  13,  218,  225-237. 

Morley,  Henry,  249. 

Morley,  John,  249,  251,  285. 

Motteux,  Peter  Anthony  (1660- 
1718),  30. 

MusBet  (mil-saO  (1810-1857),  Al- 
fred de,  289. 

Napoleon  Bonaparte,  13, 166. 
Nathan  (the  prophet),  198. 
Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  115. 
Nicole  (ne  koK). Pierre  (1625-1695), 
3, 143,  147,  163. 

"  Obscurantism  "  (disposition,  in 
the  sphere  of  the  intellect,  to  love 
darkness  rather  than  light),  252. 

Pan-tag'-ru-el,  29,  40,  41,  42. 
Panurge  (pa-niirzh'),  40,  41,  42. 
PASCAL,  Blaise  (1623-1662),  3,  12, 

48,  62,  65,  80,  115-133, 193. 
Pascal,  Jacqueline,  116. 
Pelisson  (pel-e-soN'),  149. 
Petrarch,  Francesco,  20, 


Phaedrus,  85. 

Plato,  50,  51,  59. 

Pleiades  (ple'ya-dez),  8, 10, 18. 

Plutarch,  8,  48,  56. 

Po-co-cu'rant-isra,  248. 

Pompadour,  Madame  de,  254. 

Pompey,  56. 

Pope,  Alexander,  48, 166. 

Poqueliu  (po-ke-iaN').  /SeeMollfere; 

94,  95. 
Port  Royal,  119,  127, 128,  147,  168. 
Pradon  (pra-doN').  171. 
Provenqal  (pro-vaN-sal) ,  4. 
Ptolemy  Philadelphus,  8. 

Quentin  Durward,  7. 

RABELAIS       (rS-bla'),     Frangois 

(1495?-1553?),  3,  7,  28-43,  60,  65, 

83,  146. 
RACINE    (ra-seen'),    Jean    (1639- 

1699),  12,  78,  79,  80,  83,  151,  152, 

153, 166-181,  205. 
Rambouillet    (riiN-boo-ya'),   H6tel 

de,  10, 11, 12, 100, 105, 155, 156, 183. 
Raphael  (archangel),  205. 
Re^camier    (ra-ka-me-a'),    Madame 

(1777-1849),  11. 
Richard,  the  Lion-healrted,  117. 
Richelieu    (resh-le-uh').    Cardinal, 

10,  12,  95,  154,  156. 
Roman  (ro-maN'),  5. 
"  Romanticism,"  224,  289,  290. 
"Romanticists,"  14. 
Ronsard  (roN-sar'),  Pierre  de  (1524- 

1585),  8,9. 
Ronsardism,  14. 
Rousseau    (roo-s6')>  Jean  Baptiste 

(1670-1741),  255. 
ROUSSEAU,  Jean  Jacques   (1712- 

1778),  3,  13,  14,  48,  206,  218,  249, 

250,  251,  255-281,  287. 
Ruskin,  John,  73. 


Index. 


297 


Rutebeuf    (rH-te-buf)     {b.    1230), 
troucere,  6. 

Sabliere  (sa-bll-§r'),  Madame  de  la, 

83,84. 
8aci  (sii-se'),  M.  de,  65. 
Saiutsbury,  George,  17,  58. 
Saiute-Beuve    (silNt-buv'),  Charles 

AUgustin   (1804-1869),  9,  14,  189, 

193,  199,  235,  289. 
Sal'a-dln     (8araceii    antagonist    of 

Richard  the  Lion-hearted),  117. 
Sn/on  (sfi-loN'),  H. 
Baud     (saNd),    George     (Madame 

Dudevant,  1804-1876),  3, 14. 
Saurin    (so-riN'),  Jacques    (1677- 

1730),  182. 
"  Savoyard   Curate's    Confession," 

279. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  7, 19,  25,  105. 
Seldeu,  John  ("  The  learned  "),  205. 
Seneca,  48,  50. 
SKVIGNE  (sa-ven-ya'),  Madame  de, 

Marie  de  Itabutin-Chantel  (1626- 

1696),  11,  105,  134-151,  ITO. 
Shakspeare,  16,  48,  63,  92,  94,  114, 

160,  240. 
Socrates   (contrasted  by  Rousseau 

with  .Jesus),  280,  281. 
Sophocles,  153,  166, 168. 
Stoel-Holstein      (sta-el'     ol-stSiO, 

Anne  Louise  Gerraanie  de  (1766- 

1817),  13,289. 
Stanislaus  (King  of  Poland),  285. 
St   -John,  Bayle,  56,  58,  59. 
St.  Pierre,  Jacques  Henri  Bernardin 

de  (1737-1814),  289. 
St.  Simon  (sC- -raoN'),  Louis  de  Rou- 

vroi.  Due  de  (1675-1755),  208, 209. 
Swift,  Dean,  37. 
Sw'uburue,  Algernon  Charles,  94. 

Tacitus,  7. 


Taine,  H.  (1828-        ),  233. 

Tartuffe  (tar  tuf),  106-114,  147. 

Tasso,  245,  247. 

Theleme  (ta-lem'),  38,  40. 

Themistocles,  289. 

Thibaud  {te-hb') ,  troubadour  (1201- 

1253),  6. 
Trajan,  254. 
Troubadour,  4. 
Trouvere  (troo-ver'),  5,  6. 
Tully  (Cicero),  246. 
Turgot     (tiir-go'),    Anne     Robert 

Jacques  (1727-1781),  287. 

Urquhart,  Sir  Thomas,  30. 

Van  T^un,  H.,  17. 

Vatel,  143,  144,  145. 

Vauvenargues  (vo-ve-narg'),  Lu« 
de  Clapiers,  Marquis  de  (1715- 
1747),  79,  80,  81. 

Vercingetorix,  226. 

Victor  Hugo  (1802-1885),  14,  16,  94, 
289,  291. 

Villehardouin  (vel-ar-doo-iN'), 

Geoffroy  (1165:-'-1213?),  7. 

Villeraain  (vel-mSN'),  Aljel  Fran- 
cois (1790-1870),  118. 

Virgil,  5,  9,  81,  106,  172,  245. 

Voilure  (vwa-tilr'),  Vincent  (1598- 
164S),  11. 

VOLTAIRE  (vol-tSr'),  Francois 
Marie  Arouet  de  (1694-1778),  2, 
13,  38,  48,  68, 80, 127, 152, 153,  160, 
161, 162, 163,  164, 165,  204,  218, 234 
235,  238-255,  285,  286,  287. 

Wall,  C.  H.,  106. 
Walpole,  Horace,  151,  230. 
Warens  (va-raN'),  Madame  d«u  264, 

265,  268,  269,  275. 
Webster,  Daniel,  188 
Wright,  Elizur,  86. 


QJ/9 

'Si" 


Date  Due 


h  1;4h7 r 


A     000  922  241     5 


